


Courtship and Lies

by RiaJade01



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Fluff, Mild Kink, Romance, Sith Warrior - Freeform, Smut, descriptions of pain/injury, duel-type violence, fluffy smut that is also kind of ill advised and angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-28 18:34:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 117,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8457790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaJade01/pseuds/RiaJade01
Summary: Duchess Maranel Thrask is one of the few remaining nobles of her nation Horuset following its capitulation to its southern neighbor, Dromund Kaas, at the end of the King’s War. Upon her parents’ untimely death, the child duchess was sent to live with her Kaasian uncle, Duke Vikram Baras, her fortune frozen and her resource-rich lands overseen by Horusetian loyalists until she reaches the age of majority, twenty-five.Duke Baras is desperate to lay hands on his niece’s fortune and lands. The only way around the will is marriage, which would transfer the duchess’s property to her husband. Baras recruits Malavai Quinn, the new Earl of Balmorra, who inherited the title and his father’s estate-crippling gambling debts to Baras. Lord Quinn reluctantly agrees to woo Maranel and entail the Thrask estate on Baras in exchange for forgiving the debt.As her twenty-fourth birthday passes, Maranel fights to protect herself from Baras while dealing with her growing feelings for the earl. Quinn, falls for the quick-witted duchess and must choose between the woman he loves and duty to his family. At the center of it all is Duke Baras, who manipulates a conspiracy beyond what either Maranel or Quinn could ever suspect.





	1. Prologue

_Horuset, the estate of Pesegam, several kilometers outside the former capital city of Korriban, 14 years ago._

“Your grace.”

Ten-year-old Maranel Thrask jumped and turned from the window, her eyes scanning the drawing room for either of her parents. It took several moments - forever to her mind - for her to realize that Mr. Tremel was speaking to her. Her parents were dead, buried only just that morning in the catacombs below Pesegam, leaving the estate and title to her.

Duchess Thrask. It didn’t fit her, she thought stubbornly. She considered not answering, a protest against everything that had happened.

Tremel knelt next to her, his hand large on her child-sized shoulder, his brown eyes gentle. “Your grace,” he said again. “You have a visitor. Your uncle, Duke Vikram Baras, from Dromund Kaas. He has come to pay his respects.”

Dimly, she wondered why he was speaking to her so slowly, but she simply nodded.

A few moments later a tall, powerfully built human man entered. His clothing was the darkest grey, just shy of black, topped with a tailcoat the color of congealed blood. The dark colors were his preference then, not a sign of mourning for her deceased parents. His receding sandy hair was combed back from his face.

“My dear child,” he said, coming to stand in front of her. He did not kneel as Tremel had, forcing her to look up at him. “Do you know who I am?”

“Yes. You are Duke Baras, Papa’s older brother.”

She knew little besides that fact. Her father had barely spoken of his Kaasian family in Maranel’s presence.

Her parents were an oddity; her mother was high born Horusetian sith - red skinned, thickly built, with delicate tendrils extending from her jaw and chin - and her father a Kaasian human, pale and blonde and shorter than her mother by a hand’s length. Even though the end of the King’s War a century ago brought Horuset’s capitulation to its southern neighbor and effectively united the two nations, there had been little intermarriage between the two cultures. Maranel had asked about that once. Her mother responded lightly that Kaasian nobles were generally intimidated by sith passions, but that Papa was made of sterner stuff.

Still, Maranel did not think her father’s family had approved her parents’ match.

“Do Horusetian children not curtsey to their social superiors?” Baras asked.

Maranel frowned. “You are not my superior, sir.”

He did lean down toward her then, but his posture was menacing, his face uncomfortably close to hers.

“Know your place, young one. You may fancy yourself important in this backwater, but you are of no consequence in Kaasian society and a child besides. You. Will. Curtsey.”

She stared into his eyes - dark blue or dark brown she was not sure, but as close to black as possible in humans - and weighed her options. After a moment, she lowered her eyes and dropped the barest of curtseys. Let him have his pleasantries and move on.

“Your Grace,” she mumbled.

Just like that, the storm passed; Baras straightened and smiled condescendingly.

“Very good, child.”

No wonder Papa left Dromund Kaas.

“I am here because your father’s will has been read, and he has directed that you are to live with me, in my household, until you are ready to assume your duties here.”

Tremel, who had been watching them both warily, stepped forward suddenly.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”

Maranel looked between the two men, confused. “What does that mean?”

“You are to travel to Dromund Kaas to my estate, to live until you reach your majority.”

“With all due respect, Your Grace, that’s not necessary. The duchess belongs here, where she can learn the responsibilities that have fallen to her.”

“Here, surrounded by only servants and commoners, she will somehow learn to rule?” Baras sniffed dismissively. “No, she will come to The Citadel where I can train her properly. She has no other family after all.”

Maranel was still trying to process what she was hearing. She had spent her entire life at Pesegam and only accompanied her parents to Korriban once. She had not even seen the rest of Horuset. And now she was to live in an entirely different nation for the next… she counted… fifteen years? And with this man?

She realized Tremel had stepped between her and Baras.

“I must refuse your request. Your Grace.”

Baras did not even blink. “You have one hour to pack your things and be off this estate, Tremel. See that you don’t dally or I shall remove you one piece at a time.”

“No.”

Both men looked down at her, clearly having forgotten she was there. She was a duchess, but she was still foremost a ten-year-old child in their eyes. She stepped around Tremel and stood straighter, trying to take advantage of her full height, meager as it was, and emulate the tone her mother had used when settling disputes between her tenants.

“I will accompany you, Duke Baras,” she said, hoping to sound magnanimous and in control, “but you have no authority to dismiss and threaten my steward. Mr. Tremel, assign rooms to Duke Baras and send Zara to help me pack. I will leave in the morning.”

“Lady Thrask-” Tremel began.

She fixed him with a glare.

“Do as you’re told, Mr. Tremel.”

He stared at her for several heartbeats, and then bowed and withdrew. She turned back to Baras.

“I wish to be alone this evening. Tremel will see to your lodgings for the night. I will meet you at first light tomorrow.”

She turned on her heel and walked from the room, claiming a hollow victory in refusing to curtsey to him again. She wasn’t strong enough to fight this head on, but hopefully she could keep some control of the situation and choose how it shaped her. Such was the theme of her nation’s recent history.

Maranel was at the top of the main stairs when her courage failed and she began to shake. She managed to hold in the tears until she was safely inside her room. 

* * *

 

Baras watched the door close behind her, impressed despite himself. She looked fully sith; he’d seen nothing of his late brother in the girl until she raised her chin to defy him. The way her disconcerting yellow-orange eyes narrowed, the set of her jaw, those were the very image of her father. An unnerving blend of sith and Kaasian mannerisms. She would be a nuisance, but he was confident he could deal with her. Better men and women had matched wills with him and lost; a child duchess would pose no problem, no matter how precocious.

He walked to the window the girl had been looking out of when he arrived, surveying the gardens below. What could have possessed Gilad, his brother, to name that mongrel child of his after their mother he would never understand. But then, Baras had never understood why his brother had followed the late duchess, Ragna Thrask, back to Horuset at all.

To add insult to injury, Gilad had not seen fit to entail any of Thrask’s assets or fortune on his remaining family, as would have been proper. No, all he, Baras, received, was a mouthy brat he would be forced to pay for and look after until her majority. The Thrask fortune - coin, zersium mines, farmland - were locked up tightly to await the young duchess’s return.

Nothing short of a royal proclamation could untie the will, and Baras doubted King Vitiate would be willing to involve himself in the dispute. Empowering a Horusetian duchess against a Kaasian duke would invite the ire of all Dromund Kaas’s nobility and rally them behind Baras. At the same time, it was political suicide to gift Baras with the formidable resources at Thrask’s disposal. No, Vitiate would sit back and watch this play out, only intervening if doing so became necessary to his continued reign.

In short, the entire mess was as palpable a parting insult as Baras had ever seen.

Still, he had the girl, and she was the key. He could easily decide how best to use her before his fifteen year window ran out, or arrange a convenient accident and inherit the holdings as her only remaining family. However, killing her outright was messy and too quick an end to her besides. No, he would have his revenge on his brother and teach Vitiate the folly of not crushing this miserable nation to dust before starting a new war on a different continent, with the nation Coruscant and its Allied Republics. Baras simply needed the right pieces on the board. He could wait.

Above all, Duke Vikram Baras was a very patient man.


	2. Fifteen Years Later

_Dromund Kaas, Baras’s estate, The Citadel, present day._

“Your Grace!”

The groom’s shout receded in the distance. Maranel had no time to respond even if she wanted to before he was out of earshot. She leaned low over Fury’s black-maned neck, digging in her heels to urge the mare to a harder gallop. The groom’s protest was a mere formality in any case; after fourteen years of her antics the poor man knew he had no chance of catching her. But he could truthfully say he had tried to stop her from tearing across the countryside like a bat on fire.

She smiled and turned to her right to see Jaesa’s roan gelding keeping pace with Fury. She could hear her hound Broonmark barking at them as he fell behind. They continued the blistering pace until they reached a heavily wooded area a kilometer away and slowed to a walk, picking their way between the trees until they came upon a cave set into a nearby hillside. A blue-skinned woman paced outside the cave’s entrance. 

“You’re late, Mara. I was starting to worry.”

Mara smiled. Uncle Baras hated the nickname, which of course meant she had adopted it early on during her tenure at The Citadel. Few people called her anything else now. She swung her leg over Fury’s saddle and dismounted. Broonmark burst into the clearing, panting heavily. He froze, his eyes intent on something - a small animal of some kind, most likely - in the middle distance and disappeared into the underbrush in pursuit.

“I’m sorry, Vette. Uncle Baras left for Kaas City later than I expected. I assume Tremel sent his response?”

“Yes, here.” Vette’s lekku twitched with annoyance as she handed over two letters, the seals unbroken. “I hate this; every time you’re five minutes late I think you’ve been hauled off into the dungeons of The Citadel.”

She spoke to Mara, but Vette’s purple eyes were completely absorbed with Jaesa as the dark-haired woman dismounted, her backside shown to advantage in her tight-fitting riding habit. All three women wore breeches, a scandal waiting to happen had anyone seen them. 

“I know. Fortunately, this will be over in less than a year.”

“You say that like it should be comforting. For all you know Baras has a twenty-fifth birthday surprise waiting for you,” Vette said ominously.

Mara’s twenty-fourth birthday had passed a month ago, but she had been planning her final year in her uncle’s care and her transition back to Pesegam for months now, beginning with a letter to Tremel, her steward, asking him to involve her in any estate business that did not require quick attention. It was a request only; due to her parents’ will, she could not order him to involve her thus. Fortunately Tremel had been only too happy to oblige her. His letters arrived weekly.

Vette posted and received the letters so as not to arouse Baras’s suspicions. Mara was fairly sure her uncle wouldn’t physically harm her, but she was loathe to tip her hand and give him reason to see inheritance as his only avenue for accessing her fortune. He was her sole heir as her only living family. Mara could and would change that once she reached her majority and could execute a will without needing a guardian’s signature. Even absent a physical threat, any information Baras had about her plans meant he would work to foil or exploit them. She had no intention of giving him that opportunity. Her fourteen years spent watching her uncle gather power had taught her the value of discretion more eloquently than any tutor ever could. 

Still, it was odd that after whisking her away from Pesegam all those years ago, Baras had abandoned any attempt to buy or earn her favor after her first year in his care. For the subsequent thirteen years he simply raised and educated her without trying to manipulate her into turning her lands or fortune over to him. But then, there was little she could do even if he had pressured her; her parents’ will was airtight and forbade her from touching her fortune until she reached her majority. Whatever else he was, Duke Baras was not one to waste his energy on a lost cause.

“If he does have something planned,” Mara said, “we will deal with it. He is not infallible; he hasn’t caught on to us, for example.”

“Or he simply allows us these meetings because he believes we’re no threat,” Jaesa countered. Her arm was around Vette’s waist, and one of the twi’lek woman’s lekku was stroking Jaesa’s shoulder. 

Behind them through the trees, the black-roofed spires of The Citadel stabbed into the sky, the foundation of the castle blending into the rock of the cliffside it perched upon. This area of Dromund Kaas was generally rolling hills dotted with forestland that followed the Kaas River, and the castle was visible for kilometers in any direction. It had been built by Duke Baras’s forebears, but something about the castle’s omnipresence and the opportunism in its location struck her as a fitting representation of her uncle. 

“Well then, he is a fool.” Mara’s voice was soft.

Vette snorted. “Baras likes to overlook people he thinks he has conquered. I’m looking forward to teaching him how stupid that is.” 

Baras had bankrupted Vette’s parents shortly after their marriage. Vette was born in a tiny cottage on Baras’s estate, which he magnanimously gifted to the former lord of Ryloth free of rent in exchange for unfettered access to his lands. Vette’s parents had died young and within days of each other, leaving their daughter nothing but an empty title and dependence upon the charity of the man who had laid them low in the first place. He continued allowing her to live in the cottage, most likely out of a perverse sense of pleasure rather than charity.

Marriage might have lifted her out of her circumstances if she had found a man willing to take her without a dowry, but Vette had never been interested in men. That fact was well-known amongst the lower nobility, diminishing her prospects further. Mara had heard many an aging dame tsk sadly about Vette throwing her prospects away on childish relationships that could never result in marriage. Such relationships between young women or young men were all well and good but at some point, they would lament, one had to grow up.

Jaesa, on the other hand, had been brought to The Citadel when Mara was eleven specifically to provide companionship to the young sith duchess. Mara had, in a moment of weakness, professed her loneliness to her uncle one evening. She’d regretted the admission, thinking he surely meant to use it against her. Two days later Jaesa had been brought to her rooms. They had not liked one another at first - Mara was sure Jaesa was a spy for her uncle, and Jaesa blamed Mara for being taken forcibly from her family. 

It took several years, in fact, of careful observation of Jaesa’s movements and habits for Mara to begin trusting the other woman. Promising Jaesa revenge on Baras for separating her from her family had also helped. Over the years, their uneasy alliance of necessity had evolved into friendship. Now, Mara counted Vette and Jaesa as the only two people in the world she trusted with her secrets or her life. 

“We will all teach him that lesson eloquently,” Mara said softly.

Jaesa and Vette were leaning toward one another, apparently unconsciously, Jaesa’s hand gripping Vette’s hip tightly. Mara shook her head.

“For heaven’s sake, you two.” Mara scoled them fondly. “Off with you before you disgrace yourselves.”

They glanced at one another and giggled before trotting into the cave together. Vette had been thoughtful enough to leave the writing desk they’d stored here outside the cave’s entrance. Mara picked it up and sat down on a rock on the other side of the clearing, hoping to catch less of the noise the two women made together.

She opened the first of Tremel’s letters, smiling tightly as she read it. He had slowed durasteel production at her command, claiming a labor strike at her zersium mines. Mara’s lands were the kingdom’s primary source of zersium, which was then refined into durasteel. The final product was a necessary component of weapons and other paraphernalia sorely needed in his war against the Allied Republics. Mara had no love for Coruscant or its allies, but she was happy to strangle resources if it helped Horuset’s representative on the council, Lord Vowrawn, negotiate political concessions for her nation.

In this case, after mere weeks of receiving only a trickle of Horusetian durasteel, the Dark Council had agreed to let local Horusetian nobility settle minor disputes in their lands - such as a squabble between a local duchess and her zersium miners - without intervention needed from Kaas City. It was a small concession; it merely allowed Horusetian nobles to fulfill the duties and obligations Kaasian nobles took for granted, but it was a start. Mara had no illusion that Horuset would ever regain its independence from Dromund Kaas, but she would see her people gain a respectable place in Kaasian society.

Broonmark trotted out of the underbrush, the white fur around his mouth stained red from his prey. Mara chuckled fondly at the hound and snapped her fingers. He trotted over and curled up at her feet, his bulk nearly as large as the rock she sat upon. She stroked his shaggy white fur idly as she finished reading Tremel’s letter.

Mara penned a letter in return, praising Tremel’s work and passing her compliments to Lord Vowrawn. She also included instructions for protecting her zersium miners should someone in Dromund Kaas decide to make an example of them.

Tremel’s second letter was more mundane, listing myriad other small items requiring her attention. He asked for her criteria in selecting a new groundskeeper for Pesegam, sent quarterly income figures from her holdings and requested her direction in reinvesting the coin, and notified her of several tenants who had lost a family member to the war since his last letter. One farmer’s family had been particularly hard hit, losing two sons only a few months before a blight wiped out their entire crop.

She sat on the rock for the better part of an hour writing out instructions and laying out small settlements for the grieving families. She asked Tremel to arrange for an income for the couple who had lost their crop to carry them through to the next planting season. At length Vette and Jaesa reappeared, both looking far more relaxed and happy than they had been upon arriving in the clearing. Mara fixed a nondescript seal to her letters and looked up at her friends.

“Feel better?” Mara asked.

Jaesa blushed but nodded and Vette rolled her eyes.

“Don’t be crude, Mara,” Vette chided her. “Or are you jealous?”

Mara handed Vette the letters. “Perhaps I am jealous. It is a trial to observe such tender love in one’s friends without having any experience of it.” She sighed melodramatically and pressed the back of her hand to her forehead.

“Oh please. What is Lieutenant Pierce, then? Just a distraction?" 

Mara smiled and shook her head. “Why do you keep assuming he’s been in my bed? I am not his type, Vette, any more than he’d be yours.”

Jaesa elbowed Vette in the ribs. “I told you he never set foot in Mara’s rooms.” 

Lieutenant Pierce was a Horusetian human a few years older than she who served in the Kaasian military. Mara had met him two years ago when his regiment stopped at The Citadel on its way to the front. Only moments of conversation revealed their shared homesickness and distaste for Kaasian nobility. Pierce’s rough, direct manner was a refreshing break from the studied smarm of the average Kaasian nobleman, and that she knew he was not looking to court her - or her fortune, as was inevitably the case - made him one of the most attractive men she’d ever met.

Vette’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Oh. That… explains quite a bit, actually. Like why you’d let him close to you at all.”

Mara shrugged. “I have no intention of waiting fifteen years to regain my holdings only to hand them over to a husband.”

“Yes, but you could still enjoy yourself a little more.” That, surprisingly, came from Jaesa. “I’m sure there must be a Kaasian lord somewhere who would leave your fortune in your hands.” 

There was a beat of silence as Vette and Mara stared at Jaesa incredulously before all three burst into laughter. Broonmark startled at the sound and jumped up, running between them and barking at each woman in turn. 

“Oh, Jaesa,” Mara gasped when she could speak again, reaching down to soothe her hound. “Any such man must have taken leave of his senses. And you know I could never love a man who was out of his wits.”

“At least he’d be interesting,” Vette offered, setting all three of them off again.

Trying to control her laughter, Jaesa stumbled to her saddlebag to retrieve a head of cheese and a loaf of bread. The three women shared a meal together, sitting on the ground cross-legged, talking and laughing, for another hour. As they prepared to separate, Jaesa cleared her throat.

“Mara, Duke Baras asked us to invite Vette for dinner tomorrow evening.”

“Right, of course. Thank you, Jaesa.” Mara looked at Vette expectantly.

The twi’lek woman sighed. They all knew Baras’s invitations were really a summons. “I’ll be there. It’s not like I’ve anywhere else to go. Is he having company?”

“I don’t know,” Mara replied. “He’s in Kaas City today, so it’s possible he’s making additional invitations there. I’ll let him know you’ve agreed.”

Vette nodded, rolling her eyes again. Mara grasped her friend’s wrist.

“And thank you. I know this is dangerous to you.”

“Eh. Trust me, I’ve got my hands in far more dangerous things than this,” Vette replied. An impish grin crept over her face. “Like Jaesa, just to take an example from today.”

Mara clamped her mouth shut around a laugh. Jaesa blushed fiercely, but she melted against Vette when the other woman caught her round the waist and pulled her in for a long kiss.

Mara turned away, a blush creeping across her face and the barest touch of loneliness twisting in her gut. She pulled herself into Fury’s saddle and pointed the mare toward The Citadel.


	3. The Marriage Contract

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Malavai Quinn makes a financial arrangement.

_My Lord Duke,_

_I have considered Your Grace’s offer of marriage on behalf of your niece in exchange for relief from the debts accrued by my late father. I have found I must accept. Surely this is of no surprise._

_It should be equally unsurprising to Your Grace that I shall require your assent to certain stipulations pertaining to the settlement of funds and continued independence of Balmorra under my leadership. Those stipulations are enclosed. Please forgive my directness in this matter; I am sure Your Grace can appreciate the scandal and rumor to which I will be subject for taking a Horusetian woman as my countess, and can understand my wish to ensure the continued health of my earldom in the face of such infamy._

_I beg Your Grace to take no offense to my statements. I am convinced Duchess Thrask, by virtue of her position and Your Grace’s care these fourteen years, must be a charming and lovely young lady, representing only the best of a new, unified Dromund Kaas. I am, however, only too aware of the realities in which we live and our fellows’ propensity for gossip._

_I will await Your Grace’s response as regards the specifics of our arrangement._

_Yours, etc.,_  
_Malavai Quinn  
Earl of Balmorra_

* * *

 

Duke Baras sat in his study in his Kaas City townhome trying to decide whether he was impressed or amused. Young Lord Quinn could not possibly be more opposite of his father, or indeed more opposite of most young lords. Where others frittered away their youth gambling and whoring, Quinn had chosen to serve his country. He was known as a gifted strategist and field medic, rising quickly to the rank of Captain before his father’s death brought him home. Even now he served as a military adjutant to the Dark Council, coordinating and advising that body’s prosecution of the war against the Allied Republics. Where others may have seen Baras’s offer only as the possibility of a clean slate and connection to two duchies, Quinn advanced with caution.

Indeed, if the late Rymar Quinn had possessed a fraction of his son’s studious precision, Baras may well have never sunk his hooks into the man. Still, as the profligacy of the father had served him, so would the prudence of the son. Over the years Baras found those who believed they had considered every possibility to be the easiest to manipulate, quite simply because they were usually wrong.

Baras scanned the letter once more before deciding he’d made his guest wait long enough. He lowered the letter so he could lock gazes with Quinn, who sat on the opposite side of the desk. The young man cut a dashing figure with his dark hair and deep blue tailcoat. Or he would have if not for the white-knuckled grip he had on his gloves. He noticed Baras’s gaze and released them.

“I am sure you know why I asked to meet in person, Lord Quinn.” Baras gestured toward the paper he’d just put down. “I must confess myself surprised by your letter. You know the extent of your father’s debts. Marriages have been arranged over far less.”

“I do not disagree, Your Grace.” Quinn did not quite meet Baras’s gaze and his voice shook. Still, he pressed on. “But I have a duty to my remaining family and tenants to ensure the future of Balmorra. I will not act without your written assurances, sir.”

“Then you risk losing everything,” Baras pointed out, a hint of threat in his voice.

Quinn did meet his gaze, then. The younger man’s blue eyes were hard.

“Then I am no worse off than I was a week ago, Your Grace, and free to take a wife of my choosing.”

“I am intrigued that you seem convinced you would never choose my niece of your own accord, Quinn. Are you so prejudiced against our sith neighbors?”

Quinn’s expression didn’t change, but a blush colored his pale cheeks. Like so many young lords reared in the aftermath of the King’s War, he fancied himself magnanimous and liberal-minded toward the conquered populace of Horuset. Which was all well and good until faced with bringing one into your family and siring brats with her, a distinction Baras knew all too well thanks to Gilad.

“I mean no disrespect, Your Grace,” Quinn said, looking away. “I imagine any number of Kaasian ladies would catch my notice before your niece. Forgive my bluntness, but I assumed that was why you would settle her on someone of my station instead of a fellow of your rank. My father’s debt is a larger dowry than would be required of you in any normal circumstance.”

Baras blinked. He had expected some meaningless empty compliment, not honesty. Still, he let some anger show on his face.

“Are you accusing me of selling my only family to you for the price of your debt, Lord Quinn?”

Quinn raised one dark eyebrow at him and said nothing.

Baras burst out laughing. Quinn jumped in surprise at the sound.

“Oh, my dear Lord Quinn,” Baras chuckled. “I believe you will make an excellent nephew. Draahg, get in here!”

The door behind Quinn opened, and Draahg, officially Baras's accountant and secretary, but no mere secretary required Draahg’s powerful build or skill with weapons and poison, poked his head into the room.

“My lord?”

Baras rose and handed Quinn’s list of stipulations to Draahg. “Add Lord Quinn’s stipulations to the marriage contract and bring the document to me when you are finished.”

Draagh bowed and withdrew.

“There are, of course, stipulations of my own I would make of you, Quinn.”

The young earl cocked his head questioningly.

“This will be in the contract, but I do not wish to surprise you. I am sure you have heard rumor of my late brother’s will, forbidding any access to Maranel’s fortune or lands until she reaches her majority.” When Quinn nodded, Baras continued, “those rumors are true. As her husband, ownership will go to you, not her, when she turns twenty-five next year. Her holdings are quite extensive, as I am sure you have found in your research.”

A muscle in Quinn’s cheek twitched, but he said nothing.

“Oh, do not look so murderously at me, Quinn. I expected you to look into Maranel’s holdings before agreeing to our bargain. In any case, upon your marriage, you will become the owner of those holdings. And you will entail them to me.”

Quinn’s mouth dropped open. He stared at Baras for several seconds before he could speak.

“Your Grace, I don’t understand.”

“I want those lands, Quinn. You will have your own holdings debt free, and I will happily settle a generous dowry on my niece after I have her assets. It is no different from what would happen to a Kaasian lady of her rank who married.”

Quinn was silent for several long moments. Baras could guess his thoughts. Horuset originally had far more liberal property laws when it came to married women. That those laws had been superseded by Kaasian law after the war was a continued sore spot among Horusetian nobility. For Quinn to trade away his wife's holdings would be perceived as an insult of the most personal kind. The young earl was faced with not just an arranged marriage to a woman he would never have looked at twice, but also to a woman who would surely hate him after the bargain was complete.

“This has ceased to be a negotiation, Lord Quinn,” Baras said quietly. “I will agree to your terms, and you must agree to mine. That is final.”

Quinn remained silent for a several minutes. Baras waited patiently; he knew what the answer would be. The immediate ruin of his family was a far heavier weight than the prospect of an unhappy marriage. Family ruin was forever; a hostile marriage could be worked with.

Quinn nodded and thrust his hand forward. Baras shook it.

A few moments later Draahg knocked and entered with the completed document, which both noblemen signed.

“Very good, Lord Quinn,” Baras said brightly as Draahg took the contract away. “Draahg will file this contract with the Records Bureau. You must come to the Citadel tomorrow and dine with us. It will be a family dinner, nothing formal; I and Maranel, her ladies, and a family friend. You should plan to stay a fortnight or longer to acquaint yourself with your bride to be.”

“Of course, Your Grace. I would be honored.”

His tone did not sound honored.

“Buck up, lad,” Baras said. “I do hope you will at least try to woo my niece; I believe she will like you if you make the effort. She knows nothing of these negotiations yet, and to be frank your chances of happiness are increased if she never finds out.”

Quinn spoke carefully. “She will certainly suspect something when I arrive.”

“Of course she will suspect, I have not raised her to be an imbecile!”

Baras lowered his voice with effort. “If you arrive unannounced, she will suspect. However, I will tell her you are visiting on affairs of business. I will order her to marry you if I must, but for your sake it would be best if she went willingly. She is a spirited girl, Quinn, intelligent and extremely devoted to her title and those in her care. Not unlike yourself.”

The pride in Baras’s voice was real; he had molded her into an impressive young lady. And he spoke true; if Quinn could keep his wits about him and treat Maranel as an equal, he was fairly certain she would indeed fall for him.

She did not need to step willingly into Baras’s trap, but her doing so would make his revenge all the sweeter.

Quinn heard only the pride, of course, and his blue eyes narrowed as he added that information to his understanding of the situation. He relaxed a little, clearly deciding that a woman who could elicit pride in a Kaasian duke must be more intriguing than your average sith lady.

“Of course, Lord Baras. I am eager to meet the duchess. I will do everything in my power to win her hand.”

Baras stood, signaling the interview was over. Quinn stood as well and bowed at the waist.

“I believe you will, Lord Quinn. Until tomorrow evening.”


	4. First Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Thrask welcomes a guest to The Citadel.

Mara stood in the entry hall of The Citadel trying to contain her annoyance. Upon his return that morning, Uncle Baras had informed her that he expected an Earl of Balmorra for dinner and an extended stay while he negotiated some business deal or other with her uncle. Baras had asked - well, instructed; the duke never asked - Mara to greet the earl personally and show him to his rooms, ostensibly as a sign of respect.

Mara suspected it was more a show of force, to illustrate to the earl the extent of her uncle’s power, that he could make a duchess act as a common footman. She did not know the exact nature of the business the earl had with her uncle, but she was willing to bet Fury he owed her uncle a debt he couldn’t repay, be it coin or favors, and that Baras was preparing to collect. She almost pitied the man. Or she would have, had she not been forced to stand in the vestibule like a servant waiting to receive him. Still, he could prove useful to her, if he were willing to ally himself with her against her uncle. If he were, this may well prove to be Baras’s first mistake in the polite power struggle between them.

And so she wore one of her finer day dresses - white muslin embroidered with white Horusetian thornroses, topped with a soft wool pashmina edged with deep blue and red embroidery - and wound a string of tiny pearls through her dark red-black hair. Let him see a powerful potential ally instead of another of Duke Baras’s captive nobles. She schooled her features into a pleasant smile as the door to the vestibule opened and Mr. Lucas announced his arrival.

“Lord Malavai Quinn, Earl of Balmorra, Your Grace.”

The man who entered was far younger than she expected - perhaps six or eight years older than she at most - and striking with his dark hair and burgundy tailcoat. He looked around the vestibule as he entered, removing his gloves. He stopped short when he saw her. Even several meters away Mara was struck by the intensity of his gaze. She was not entirely sure how long they stared at one another, but her wrap sliding off her shoulder pulled her back to reality.

“Lord Quinn,” she began, resettling the pashmina and moving toward him. “Welcome to The Citadel. I am-”

“Duchess Thrask,” he murmured, stepping fully into the room.

“Yes,” she replied. “I see my uncle has already spoken of me to you. Duke Baras asked me to…”

She trailed off. His eyes had followed her as she moved toward him. Now she stood within arm’s length of him and he held her gaze unflinchingly. The blue of his eyes reminded her of the ocean off of Pesegam’s coast. She smiled slightly at the memory. His frank willingness to meet her gaze was refreshing; most Kaasian lords’ eyes slid over her as if focusing on her were painful, or focused on her strange sith features.

“Please forgive me, Your Grace,” He said, ducking his head in a respectful bow. “I expected Duke Baras.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” She said dryly and offered him her hand.

“Not at all. I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”

He took her offered hand and surprised her when he raised it to his lips and kissed it. It was not an inappropriate gesture, precisely, but it was the first she received from a Kaasian lord. That neither of them wore gloves, and he looked up at her with those intense blue eyes as his lips touched her skin, added an intimacy to the gesture that made her stomach flip. She reclaimed her hand, thankful that her red skin would most likely conceal the blush that heated her cheeks.

She looked over Quinn’s shoulder and saw the butler still standing in the doorway. She suppressed a sigh. His eyes flicked away from them when he realized she was looking at him. “Mr. Lucas, you do have duties to attend to, do you not?”

He bowed. “I do indeed, Your Grace. Please accept my humble apologies.”

Mara felt her eyes narrow despite her efforts to keep a neutral expression. There was nothing humble about the man; he was Baras’s creature to the bone and she had no doubt he would report everything he’d seen here to her uncle.

Quinn turned to look over his shoulder as Mara replied, “I do not require your apologies, Mr. Lucas, but your obedience. Return to your duties.”

Lucas glared at her openly and withdrew without further comment or a bow.

“Mr. Lucas seems…” Quinn seemed to search for an adjective that was both accurate and polite.

“Awful?” she finished. Quinn’s eyes snapped back to her face, his dark eyebrows raised in surprise. “He is. Were The Citadel mine to run I’d have sacked him years ago. But Uncle Baras likes him, and so he stays. Say what you will about scullery maids, I have never seen one so given to gossip as Lucas.”

She held his gaze, hoping Lord Quinn was savvy enough to pick up on the warning. He nodded minutely.

She gestured for him to follow and walked toward the main stairs at the center of the castle. “My uncle asked me to show you to your rooms, Lord Quinn, and arrange for whatever you may need while you are with us.”

“Surely you have staff to take care of such details, Your Grace.”

She flashed him a flirtatious smile. “We do, Lord Quinn, but none are as delightful as I.”

He gaped at her and blushed prettily. She turned away and started up the stairs, pleased with herself. She was on the sixth step before he recovered and caught up to her. She took him down the central hall of the castle, pointing out the formal dining room and ballroom, and then the smaller room they used when dining as a family.

“That is where tonight’s dinner will be,” she was saying. “I hope you do not mind it will not be-” she trailed off, feeling his eyes on her. She turned to look at him and his head snapped back to face forward, his posture sheepish. “Is there something wrong, my lord?”

“No, Your Grace.”

She stared at him for a moment longer before continuing. She led him up the last staircase toward the guest wing. “We do not serve family dinners _a la russe_ , I hope you will not mind.”

“On the contrary, Your Grace, I am honored to be included in this more intimate gathering.”

She laughed. “You may regret that later, my lord. We will be only six, but four of us are quite raucous. I will introduce you later, but- What _are_ you staring at?” She stopped walking and turned on him.

Quinn flinched and turned nearly as red as she. “I am sorry, Your Grace. Please, I-”

“I am the first sith woman you have ever seen,” she finished for him.

His gaze, which had been locked on her eyes, twitched downward slightly, toward her mouth. He was looking at the bone spurs that framed her chin, she realized. Her stomach twisted. She hadn’t realized how pleased she had been to think he was different. He had touched her unflinchingly, after all, but apparently that was simple shock at their introduction. Now she was back to being the strange, exotic specimen so many Kaasian lords saw when they could bring themselves to look at her.

Mara turned away from him and continued up the hall without waiting for him to follow. His boots thumped against the carpet as he hurried to catch up with her.

“Your Grace, if I have offended-”

“Be at ease, Lord Quinn. You are no more offensive than any other Kaasian lord I have met.” She stopped in front of the door at the end of the hallway. “These rooms are yours. The Citadel’s staff will see to any needs you may have; I assume you know how to use a bellpull. If you’ll excuse me.”

She turned on her heel and walked away, annoyed at him, and annoyed at herself for being so affected by his behavior.

 

Quinn watched her go, thoroughly flummoxed by Lady Thrask’s sudden change in mood. He realized he was paying particular attention to the way her gown hugged her hips as she moved and snapped his head back to the door in front of him. His guest quarters were large, including a sitting room and dressing room in addition to separate sleeping quarters for himself and a valet. Each room was richly-appointed, which was no surprise. He sank down onto an upholstered bench at the foot of the bed, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Yesterday afternoon, in Baras’s Kaas City townhome, his choice had seemed so stark and clear. Now, in the heart of the duke’s domain, Quinn was much less certain of his course. He rose and removed his tailcoat, throwing it over a chair, loosened his cravat, and reached into the breast pocket of his waistcoat to retrieve a letter that was delivered to him that morning before he departed. In preparing to be away from Gorinth House, he hadn’t found time to read it. He smiled when he turned it over and saw the sealing wax was stamped with a bumblebee. He’d gifted the stamp to his sister, Georgiana, for her thirteenth birthday mere weeks ago.

 

_My dearest brother,_

_It is odd to think that, by the time this reaches you, you may well be engaged. It is unfair, I think, that Papa’s debts have taken such control of your life, and that it has fallen on your shoulders to marry to prevent our ruin. Yes, I know what it is we face; you and Mama have tried to hide it but I am not a simpleton, Malavai._

_Mama just walked by and, nosy woman that she is, read what I have written and said I should stop using the salutation “dearest brother”, as you are my only brother. But the joke is on her. I am sure, had I brothers enough to fill every seat on the Dark Council, you should still be my favorite. But I digress._

_I know you’re nervous that Duchess Thrask may not like you. I think this is a stupid worry. Of course she will like you. Simply refrain from correcting her grammar or droning on about the inaccuracies of the last Balmorran census. I can assure you from experience this is off-putting. Also ascertain her fondness for toads, because you do not want her to hear the noise you made when I left that toad in your bed when I was ten. I found it amusing, but it is not what ladies look for in a man. (And before you glower until this letter bursts into flame: no, dear brother, I am sure I do not have any idea what a woman wants in a man. But high-pitched shrieking is almost certainly not on the list.)_

_You must try to like Lady Thrask, Malavai. This is not her fault. If you are truly worried, bring the duchess to Sobrik and let me meet her. You know I like everyone, and if she cannot pass muster with me, she will prove herself to be the most wretched soul in existence. But I am not so pessimistic as to think it necessary. Milicent Gardiner says her brother met the duchess in Kaas City last season and disliked her immensely for her sharp tongue, and she repeated to me some of Lady Thrask’s alleged insults against him. They were quite creative. Any lady who puts Lord Gardiner in his place must, at the very least, be extremely sensible...._

 

The letter went on for another page with Georgiana detailing her studies and music lessons and the usual mundanities of her life at Sobrik in his absence. Quinn laid it aside and chuckled. The girl turned thirteen and suddenly fancied herself qualified to advise her much older brother in matters of the heart. Or wallet, as the case was here. Still, her letter fortified his resolve and threw his interactions with Lady Thrask into a different light. Indeed, he was certain Georgiana would chide him for his behavior had she witnessed it.

Quinn was forced to admit his staring at Lady Thrask had been both fascination - she was correct, he’d never spent any appreciable time with a sith woman - and, more surprisingly, attraction, neither of which would be welcome from him at this juncture. Of course she had been unnerved by him. And she mentioned other Kaasian lords - how many had looked at her thus? And who? He found he strongly disliked the idea of other men studying her in such a manner.

He pushed aside his possessiveness. He could not hope to earn her affection while behaving like a boor. And he found he did want to earn it, shocking as that was to him. He had expected her to be ladylike and capable, thanks to her uncle’s influence. But he had not expected to find her so alluring, nor had he been prepared for her wit or that wicked smile she gave him at the bottom of the stairs. Remembering left him tugging his cravat to loosen it further. Whomever painted the miniature Quinn had been given had done the duchess a grave disservice; they’d captured all of her sith strangeness and none of her vivacity.

She was a welcome surprise, and she left him feeling the first stirrings of optimism about his prospects. He’d never been foolish enough to hope for a love match. But he found himself hopeful that they could be companionable together, and that fulfilling their marital duties need not be unpleasant. And to secure Georgiana’s future… yes, he could, and would, do this.

Assuming, of course, he could make up for his missteps today. And that Lady Thrask did not turn on him when he entailed her entire duchy to her uncle.

Still, some hope was better than none.


	5. A Dinner Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Citadel's residents are curious about the newly-arrived earl, and Duke Baras hosts an intimate dinner party.

“So, what’s he like?” Vette leaned forward, the fabric of her violet gown rustling.

Mara fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Odd. Very prim, but also given to staring in a most ungentlemanly fashion. Oh, and he flusters very easily, Vette. You should have fun with that.”

Jaesa patted Mara’s arm. “He probably just didn’t know what to make of you.”

“I’m sure he didn’t. I only hope he doesn’t intend to peel my skin off with his eyes until he comes to a decision.”

A footman approached and touched Mara’s arm deferentially, informing her that their final guest had arrived. She excused herself and hurried out to the hallway. Mr. Lucas had just topped the stairs leading a tall, broad-shouldered man in an officer’s dress uniform. The butler saw Mara approaching and stopped to bow.

“Lieutenant Pierce, Your Grace.”

Behind him, Pierce rolled his eyes and fussed with the sword at his side. The poor man had never been comfortable in a dress uniform.

“Yes, yes. Thank you, Lucas, that will be all.”

She shooed the butler back down the stairs and closed the distance between her and Pierce.

“M’lady,” he said with just a touch of sarcasm in his brown eyes, and kissed the back of her gloved hand.

“You, sir, are a blackguard,” she replied sternly, although she could not completely keep a smile from her face. “Would it honestly kill you to answer at least one of my letters? You know I worry when you’re at the front.”

“My mother doesn’t hound me for letters half as much as you do, Nel,” he said, releasing her hand.

“I am fairly certain you have lied to Mrs. Pierce about the danger you’re in, like any good son would. I know better. And anyway, your mother is not your duchess, Pierce. When I write to you I expect an answer.”

“A thousand pardons, Your Grace, for not being able to post a bloody letter in a war zone.”

Mara rolled her eyes and smacked Pierce in the shoulder. He let out an exaggerated grunt.

“I did start one,” he said, reaching into his coat to pull out a rumpled, stained scrap of paper.

Mara stared at him incredulously. “Is that it?”

“Yeah. I dropped it, a Pub stepped on it before I could put a bayonet in his face. I was going to finish it after, but Arlos was there and I got... distracted.” He offered her the soiled paper.

Mara began laughing. “No, thank you.” She pushed his hand back toward him.

“What do you mean, ‘no thank you’? I had to spend an hour explaining to Arlos you’re just a meddling noblewoman and not some girl I’m sweet on. Take the blasted letter, Nel.”

Mara gestured at her gown, silver silk with a jeweled neckline, her body still shaking with laughter. “What am I going to do with it now? I have nowhere to put it.”

He glared for a moment, then softened, returning the letter to a pocket inside his coat. “No, you’re right. I’ll post it tomorrow, nice and proper.”

Mara shook her head, knowing he would do exactly that.

“Well,” she said, taking a few breaths to regain control of her countenance. “You made it home in one piece, so I shall forgive you this once,” she said magnanimously.

Pierce grumbled but offered his arm. “In that case, may I escort you to the drawing room, m’lady?”

Mara slid her hand into the crook of Pierce’s arm, but when they turned to walk up the hallway, the saber at his side caught her skirt. She tumbled forward inelegantly, arms flailing in search of something to grab onto. A pair of hands caught her, one grabbing her upper arm and the other hooking round her waist to keep her upright.

“Bloody hell, Pierce, what-” She looked up and found herself staring not at Pierce’s gruff visage, but into a pair of ocean blue eyes. Oh, hell.

“Lord Quinn.” She found herself having to remember to breathe. “I... that is, thank you.”

“Think nothing of it, Your Grace. I’m only glad I happened by at the right moment.”

Pierce joined them, looking Quinn up and down appraisingly. “I’m sorry, Nel. I have no idea why this blasted thing is required.” He clenched the hilt of the saber and grimaced. “I haven’t used a sword on the battlefield yet.”

“It is a standard part of the dress uniform because it recognizes the traditions of the King’s Army, Lieutenant,” Quinn said, over-enunciating each syllable.

Pierce glared at him. “And when was the last time you were at the front, _my lord_?”

Quinn sputtered. “I’ll have you know-”

“Lord Malavai Quinn of Balmorra, Lieutenant Ryland Pierce,” Mara cut in smoothly. “You may as well be properly introduced if you insist on trading blows in my hallway.” Both men looked slightly abashed, although they still glanced at one another in annoyance.

Quinn’s hands were still on her waist and arm, the latter curved around the strip of bare skin between her glove and her sleeve. Mara blushed and stepped back, out of his reach, and smoothed the skirt of her gown. Quinn flushed as well as he snapped his arms back to his sides. Pierce looked between them, a smirk forming on his face. Mara sighed and turned to him.

“Pierce, Vette and Jaesa are in the drawing room and I know they will be overjoyed to see you. I must speak with Lord Quinn.”

Pierce stared at Quinn for another few heartbeats before inclining his head respectfully to her. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

She waited until he disappeared into the drawing room to speak.

“I see you excel at skulking in corners as well as staring, Lord Quinn,” she said, glaring at him.

He grimaced. “I am sorry for my behavior earlier, Your Grace. I was unpardonably rude. I had hoped we could start again, but…” he trailed off.

Mara cocked her head, not bothering to contain her surprise, but she was not ready to let him off the hook yet.

“How long were you spying on me, my lord?”

Quinn flushed at her choice of words, but responded evenly, “I saw you strike the lieutenant, Your Grace.”

She sighed again. “You are not making the best impression, you know.”

“I do know,” he said. “I’m sorry. I was not sure… Lieutenant Pierce was speaking to you rather roughly.”

“And you wanted to be on hand to defend my honor?” She smiled at that, partly at the absurdity, and partly at his high-handed, if oddly sweet, intention. He could not have known that she and Pierce had a rapport.

“I did, Your Grace,” he said sheepishly.

“Pierce and I are old friends,” she explained. “And I am not a damned wilting flower, Lord Quinn.”

He raised his eyebrows only slightly at her language. “Clearly not, Your Grace. I apologize for my presumption.”

Mara stared at him. He was, again, willing to admit he was wrong. She could not decide if he was sincere or suffering some kind of fever or other mind-altering condition.

“You are far more solicitous of my feelings than most or, I dare say any, of the Kaasian lords I’ve met,” she said carefully.

He smiled, then, some of his timidity giving way to rakish charm, and Mara felt her breath catch. “I think you will find, Lady Thrask, that I am not like most Kaasian lords.”

She eyed him for a few moments more, then removed one glove and offered her bare hand. If pressed, she could not have said why she did so. It certainly had nothing to do with wanting to feel his lips on her skin, she told herself.

“Duchess Maranel Thrask,” she introduced herself.

He bowed. “Earl Malavai Quinn, Your Grace. I am honored.” The same little thrill ran through her when he kissed the back of her hand. She squeezed his hand with her fingertips before withdrawing and pulling her glove back on.

“May I escort you?” He asked.

“You may.”

She took his arm. “I do hope your rooms are satisfactory,” she said as they walked slowly toward the drawing room.

“Indeed, Your Grace, I have no complaints. And,” he lowered his voice, “I appreciate the warning about Mr. Lucas. You did not have to do that. Thank you.”

Mara stared for a moment, wondering how much this man could possibly surprise her in one evening.

“You’re welcome,” she replied. She considered saying more but decided against it at this juncture. She still wasn’t sure she could trust him even with the knowledge that she and Baras were at odds, though he’d certainly figure that out soon enough.

“Come, I will introduce you to the rest of our party.”

 

***

 

Their small dinner party was rather odd, Quinn decided, as he took a bite of roasted venison. He sat near the foot of the table, to Lady Thrask’s left, with Miss Willsaam on his right, the silence so thick he feared the entire table could hear him chewing his food.

It had not been thus for the entire evening; prior to dinner being served, Lady Thrask and her companions had chatted and laughed amiably in the drawing room. Quinn had been an observer through most of it, though Lady Thrask made a point to ask him questions to involve him in the discussion. He appreciated the gesture, but each attempt ended with the twi’lek woman, Vette, uttering something outrageous that left him stammering in shock. Vette and Pierce laughed at his discomfort, Miss Willsaam smiled shyly, and Lady Thrask politely covered her mouth to hide a chuckle.

By the time a footman summoned them to the informal dining room, every muscle in Quinn’s body was wound tight.

If he had hoped dinner would allow him a chance to relax, he was wrong. When they arrived in the dining room, the levity that had existed in his dining companions evaporated. Baras stood at the head of the table, tall and imposing. Lady Thrask’s posture stiffened, as if she were strengthening her spine to face something unpleasant.

The duke went around the table and exchanged pleasantries with each of his guests; he inquired about Quinn’s journey and the acceptability of his accommodations. And then he fell silent. Two courses had gone by with nary a word. More oddly, Lady Thrask had not relaxed in the slightest. She ate sparingly because she seemed wary of taking her eyes off her uncle to look down at her plate. The duke, for his part, seemed not to notice or care that he was under such scrutiny, and ate heartily.

At length, Duke Baras cleared his throat.

“I see the Nelsons are still occupying the wheat field out past the river, Maranel. I thought I told you to remove them.”

Quinn stiffened; this was not a discussion to be had in front of guests. Lady Thrask’s face was a serene mask, however, as she put down her fork and looked at her uncle.

“I believe your exact words, Uncle, were to deal with the problem. I rode out to the farm several times last week to observe their operations and decided there was no problem to address.”

“And how did you learn so much about farming, young one, that you felt you could override my instructions?”

“I know you rarely visit it, Uncle, but you must know The Citadel’s library is rather extensive. It even contains many useful treatises on the management of farms,” she said sweetly.

“When I give you an order I expect it to be carried out,” Baras snapped, a fist slamming onto the table.

Everyone jumped except Lady Thrask. She leaned back in her chair and raised her wine glass to her lips.

“If you dislike how I run your estate, you can always send me home.”

Baras glared at her for several long minutes. Lady Thrask met his gaze, her amber eyes wide and innocent. Her posture, on the other hand, and the way she sipped her wine calmly, were pure insolence.

“Explain yourself. Now,” Baras ordered, his voice deadly quiet.

“That field is not ideal for wheat, Uncle, and Mr. Nelson knows that land better than anyone. Generations of his family have tended those fields and bent it to their will. They have refined the process of growing wheat there, in that soil, in this climate, to an art form. You will not find another tenant who can match Nelson’s yield, not without years of poor yields while they learn, at least. It’s in his interest and yours to leave them be.”

“I told him to increase the yield this harvest and he ignored me, Maranel. He will learn not to disobey my orders.” The threat in his voice was clear.

“Your demands are unreasonable,” Lady Thrask shot back. “If you insist on punishing a tenant at your own expense to nurse a wounded ego, you are free to evict him yourself. I will not do it for you.”

For a moment, Quinn felt certain the discussion would come to blows. But then Baras sat back, his face thoughtful.

“What do you think of my niece, Lord Quinn? She has a most unladylike mouth on her, as you can see.” Quinn blinked at the rank inappropriateness of the question, utterly unsure how to answer. Fortunately, Baras continued talking, relieving Quinn of the necessity. “Still, you speak sense, Maranel. I shall leave the Nelsons alone for now. But if their yield drops, it will be on your head.”

Lady Thrask picked up her fork again. “I shall pray for favorable weather, then,” she replied dryly.

Baras chuckled, the sound sending a shiver up Quinn’s spine. How could she remain so composed through this?

“You will need to learn to have unpleasant conversations with your tenants sometime, my niece. Or hadn’t you heard, your zersium miners are striking?”

She chewed her food daintily and swallowed before answering. “I had heard that. I also heard the Dark Council re-vested power over local disputes to Horusetian nobility, allowing Tremel to act in my name.”

“Yes. It is curious that Lord Vowrawn managed to time his petition to coincide with a labor strike that proved his point rather eloquently.”

“Vowrawn is nothing if not a master politician,” she agreed.

“I cannot help but wonder if he had prior knowledge the strike would happen,” Baras said thoughtfully.

Lady Thrask cocked her head. “Labor strikes are not sudden phenomena, Uncle. I’m sure there had been whispers of it weeks in advance.”

“I’m sure you’re right; it would be too odd if Tremel and Vowrawn were conspiring.”

He held Lady Thrask’s gaze for a moment longer and then pushed his plate away.

“I do apologize for my rudeness, but I have business to attend to,” Baras said, standing. The rest of the table stood with him. “Quinn, I will summon you after breakfast tomorrow.”

Quinn bowed his head in response, and Baras left. The four guests let out a collective breath as the door closed behind the duke. Lady Thrask glanced downward and tsked.

“Blast. I seem to have gotten something on my gown.” She smiled apologetically at the rest of them. “Jaesa, could you assist me?”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

The dark-haired woman walked around the table toward the door to the drawing room. As Lady Thrask followed, she looked over her shoulder. “Vette, please inform Mrs. Spratt we will take dessert and coffee in the drawing room. Gentlemen, you’re welcome to remain at the table as long as you wish.”

With that, the two women left the room. Just before the door closed on them, Quinn saw Jaesa grip Lady Thrask’s arm, seemingly with concern.

He turned back to Pierce and Vette.

“Is this a typical evening?”

Vette shook her head, looking somber. “It’s never fun, but tonight was worse.”

Pierce was looking at Quinn as if revising his opinion of the earl. “He must have his boot on your throat if he’s so intent on flexing his power in front of you.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Mara,” Vette said. “He likes to toy with her; if he can humiliate a duchess in front of company...”

Quinn nodded his understanding and looked at the door she’d disappeared through, unable to keep the concern from his face. “Will she be alright?”

Vette smiled tightly. “I should think so. She was showing off a little, as well.”

Quinn blinked at that.

Vette moved toward the door to the drawing room as a footman entered with a tray containing brandy, two snifters and a cigar box. “I should be off. Enjoy your brandy, gentlemen. We’ll serve dessert in the drawing room when you’re ready.”

Pierce poured for them both. Quinn accepted a snifter with a grateful nod but waved off the cigar.

They sat in silence sipping their brandy, Quinn trying to sort out just what sort of mess he’d stepped into.


	6. Polite Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Quinn settles in at The Citadel and writes a letter to his sister. He and Lady Thrask, having begun anew, get on rather well.

_My Dear Georgiana,_

_I have passed a very interesting week here at The Citadel since my last letter to you. I know I shared with you my trepidation at my new surroundings and I am happy to report that, for the most part, those fears have proven false. Indeed, for the better part of this week I have found myself free to pursue my own interests during the daylight hours and keeping extremely pleasant company during the evenings. The countryside here is very different from Balmorra, rolling hills agreeable for riding, and I have taken Ghost out nearly every day._

_That has come to an end, however, as a storm has seen fit to unleash its fury on The Citadel and its surrounding lands. Lady Thrask tells me these storms are typical for this time of year and frequently last several days at a time. Fortunately The Citadel is well-built to keep its occupants diverted during such inclement weather. While my own state of mind is secure, I fear poor Ghost will be in a beastly mood when I am finally able to free him from the confines of the stables._

* * *

The day after that first tense dinner with Duke Baras and his guests, Quinn took a walk around The Citadel, mapping it in his mind and learning his surroundings, before breaking his fast alone. The morning meal was served with little formality, a sideboard laden with an array of choices and kept hot for several hours as each of the family ate at their leisure.

His morning meeting with Baras was quick and largely for the sake of appearances, with the duke reiterating his instructions that Quinn should win Lady Thrask’s affections and inquiring about his needs during his stay. The conversation felt extremely improper, not least because of the duke’s behavior the night before. Remembering the discussion during dinner, Quinn expressed an interest in The Citadel’s library, hoping that would be sufficient to end the meeting. Baras seemed amused by the inquiry, and dispatched Quinn with a footman as a guide.

The library was on the second floor with most of the other public rooms of the castle. Lady Thrask had called it “extensive”, and that was certainly apt. It housed easily twice as many volumes as Sobrik’s library. It was also an extremely handsome room. Situated in a corner of the castle, the library was filled with huge floor-to-ceiling windows that balanced the dark wood of the shelves with natural light. Plush couches and chairs were arranged into discrete clusters that allowed a reader to take full advantage of the sunlight. A pair of writing desks held candelabras that could provide concentrated light for anyone wishing to read after dark.

Quinn spent the better part of the day perusing the shelves, familiarizing himself with The Citadel’s cataloging scheme. At length, he found himself staring at a collection of volumes on Horusetian history. He selected one written by Talos Drellik, one of the Dromund Kaas’s better-known historians. He was walking toward the door when it opened and a shaggy white hound the size of a small horse bounded into the library. It took only a handful of seconds for the beast to catch Quinn’s scent, and he suddenly found himself staring into the narrowed eyes of a growling mountain of fur. Quinn resisted the urge to back up, maintaining eye contact with the hound and trying to project an air of command.

“Broonmark!”

The beast’s growl paused as it looked back toward the door for a heartbeat, before focusing again on Quinn.

“Broonmark, come!”

The hound twitched and, reluctantly, turned and trotted back to the feet of its mistress. Quinn consciously kept himself from sighing in relief as he finally looked up to identify his rescuer. Lady Thrask came toward him, concern on her face.

“Lord Quinn, I must apologize. Are you alright?”

“Yes, I am quite well, Lady Thrask, thank you.”

Quinn willed his body to relax as he closed the distance between them. Broonmark peered out from behind Lady Thrask’s skirts, his eyes still tracking Quinn warily.

Lady Thrask chuckled. “The color is returning to your face, so I shall believe you. I’m sorry, if I had known someone was in here I would have entered first.”

“Does this beast often accompany you around the castle?”

Now that he was standing next to Lady Thrask, the hound took on normal proportions. He was still large - his head came up to his mistress's waist - but well short of the pony-sized beast Quinn had mistook him for originally.

“He does.” Her face lit up in that wicked smile she’d given him the day before. “He is also intent on defending my honor whether I like it or not, a sentiment you can surely understand.”

Quinn grimaced. “You will not allow me to forget that, will you, Lady Thrask?”

“Not any time soon, my lord,” she confirmed. “Come, two such high-handed beasts ought to know one another.”

Before he could determine whether she was insulting him and respond appropriately, she took him by the wrist and drew him closer to the hound. The beast flattened its ears and began to growl, but Lady Thrask silenced him with a hand on his head. She stroked his fur gently, making soothing noises as she pulled Quinn’s hand near the beast’s snout.

“Relax, my lord. He can sense your fear.” She used the same tone with him she used with the hound.

“That is rather easier said than done, your grace,” he responded flatly. 

Her hand slid down his wrist to cover his, red on white, and for several moments the hound sniffed them both. She slowly drew her hand away, allowing the beast to adjust to Quinn’s scent, her other hand continuing to stroke the beast’s head. At length, he looked up at Lady Thrask and back at Quinn, before sitting down and yawning.

“Well, that went better than expected,” she said to Quinn.

He started and glared at her. “What precisely did you expect?”

“It usually takes more coaxing for him to display so much disinterest. He growled at Pierce from the shadows for months, didn’t you my rude beast?” Her tone changed as she addressed Broonmark, rising in pitch. His tail wagged and he rolled onto his side, displaying his belly.

“No, sir, I will not reward your poor behavior toward my guest.” The hound rolled back onto his stomach, his head resting on his paws in a gesture Quinn could only describe as pouting.

She looked back at Quinn. “How do you like our library, Lord Quinn?”

“It is one of the most beautiful I have come across,” he answered truthfully.

She smiled. “This is one of my favorite rooms in the castle,” she said. “Before my grandmother married into the family, it was musty and disused. She spent a small fortune restoring it and adding books to the collection, or so my father told me.”

“You were named for the late duchess, were you not?”

She had turned to look out the windows at the countryside, but her head jerked back to him at the question.

“Yes.” She hesitated, as if uncertain of her next words, but seemed to make a decision and continued. “To be frank it always felt wrong, until I saw this room. She never approved of my father’s marriage, but she clearly tried to understand. She acquired a number of volumes about Horuset after my parents married.”

Quinn looked down at the book in his hand. She followed his gaze.

“And it would seem she’s not the only one,” Lady Thrask said quietly. “Lord Quinn, if I may make a suggestion?”

“Of course.”

“Drellik is a fool. He traipsed through Horuset stealing from our sacred sites and writing his own stories around the objects he absconded with." 

Quinn blinked. “Ah. I... is there another you would recommend? 

She took the book out of his hand and returned it to the shelf, pulling a different tome from that section. “Lady Raina Temple’s work is much better. Still from a Kaasian perspective,” she made a face, “but she was far more interested in understanding than narrating.”

He took the volume from her. “Thank you,” he said.

She nodded. “I shall leave you to your reading,” she said and moved toward the door.

“Lady Thrask.”

She turned. “Yes?”

“Truly, I value your input in this.”

She cocked her head, a hint of confusion showing on her face.

“You are welcome, Lord Quinn.” Again, she paused and studied him. “You must tell me what you think of it.”

“Of course,” he replied.

She turned and left the room, Broonmark at her heels.

It never occurred to Quinn to wonder why she had come to the library without retrieving anything for herself.

 

***

 

There were no other formal meals at The Citadel in the first week Quinn spent within its walls. Quinn took his meals alone during the day, but more often than not Lady Thrask sent an invitation to dine with her and Miss Willsaam, and sometimes Vette, in the evenings. He found himself looking forward to those invitations, anticipating the footman’s knock on his door with all the eagerness of a child on his birthday.

Late one evening after dinner he sat with the duchess and her ladies around the fireplace in the drawing room. He was nursing a dram of whiskey as Vette shared some gossip that was surely false; something about a maid courting a groom and a footman simultaneously and the increasingly outrageous lengths the woman went to keep each lover ignorant of the other. As Quinn watched Lady Thrask’s face light up with laughter, he realized with a start she no longer looked strange to him. She was simply herself.

Even so, she continued to surprise him. The following day he returned to the stables on Ghost as she was preparing her own horse for a ride. Broonmark trotted around the stable yard barking excitedly. Quinn’s eyes nearly fell out of his head as he watched Lady Thrask, in a men’s riding habit far too tight to be decent, climb into her saddle unassisted. She turned her mount - a tall, well-proportioned grey mare with a glossy black mane - and grinned when she saw him staring.

“Your mouth is open, Lord Quinn.”

He snapped it shut.

“Do you always ride astride, Lady Thrask?” he asked when he could form words again.

“If I wish to get anything done, yes.” Her tone became teasing. “Does that excite you, my lord?”

He stared at her; he was simply incapable of anything else. Her inappropriate attire, her even more inappropriate flirting... yes, she did, in fact, excite him quite a bit. He had nearly summoned the courage to answer her in the affirmative when her mount whinnied and nipped at Ghost. The gelding danced a few paces to the side nervously, diverting Quinn’s attention to calming the beast. Lady Thrask tightened her grip on her own reins and used her knees to guide her mount until Ghost was out of the mare’s reach.

“You must forgive Fury, Lord Quinn. She is an ill-tempered nag.” She patted the mare’s neck affectionately.

“You seem to favor ill-tempered beasts, Lady Thrask,” he said.

“You’re in good company, my lord,” she replied.

Quinn contemplated that for a moment, unsure how to respond.

“Will you be riding alone?” he asked finally.

“Yes. Jaesa is unwell so I’ve ordered her to stay indoors.” She paused. “You are welcome to join me, Lord Quinn.” Her amber eyes sparkled. “If you believe you can concentrate enough to keep up, that is. I won’t have you thrown from your horse because you were staring.”

Quinn raised his chin in acceptance of her challenge. “I would be delighted, your grace.”

They stayed out for several hours. Lady Thrask was an accomplished horsewoman and pleasant guide; Quinn saw more of Duke Baras’s estate that afternoon than he’d seen in his past four rides combined. They alternated racing across the open countryside at a gallop with walking their horses side by side, deep in conversation. She detailed the history of the estate and he in turn described Balmorra and its manufacturing capabilities. She seemed pleased to hear about his home. Through it all Broonmark accompanied them, disappearing into the underbrush when they galloped only to catch up when they slowed.

Quinn nearly panicked the first time they caught the notice of Baras’s tenants, realizing too late the impropriety of their riding alone, to say nothing of Lady Thrasks’ breeches, which he had managed to forget about during their ride and discussion. However, they did not seem overly surprised, either by Lady Thrask’s attire or the fact that he accompanied her without a chaperone. Broonmark, for his part, stayed with his lady’s horse, glaring at the farmers but making no move toward them. Lady Thrask introduced Quinn and they exchanged pleasantries for a moment before the two farmers ducked their heads respectfully and returned to their work.

They returned just before sunset, beasts and riders both exhausted and covered in grime kicked up during their gallops. As Quinn relaxed in a warm bath later, he reflected he could not remember spending so agreeable an afternoon with anyone, let alone any woman.

The next morning, the storm broke. He took advantage of an afternoon spent indoors to write an overdue letter to his sister.

* * *

_I have described the company I keep here as extremely pleasant. You will of course suspect I am referring to the lady herself, and you would be correct. You are too kind, dear sister, to triumph overmuch at my expense when I admit the contents of your last letter have proven to be wisdom beyond what a girl of your age should possess. (Perhaps you will agree to let the subject drop after only a year or two of constant reminders.) Lady Thrask has an exceedingly sharp wit, as Gardiner’s experience would suggest. However, that wit is tempered by such charm one cannot help but find her delightful, even when her humor is turned against you. In short, I like her very much, and I believe you will, too. Though she may well prove to be a negative influence on your young, impressionable sensibilities, I cannot say that I mind._

_I share these details with you, Georgiana, because I know you have been anxious for my happiness. However, I must ask you to keep this information in confidence for the time being. You and Mother are the only souls who know the details of the arrangement I have made with Duke Baras. I fear Mother may be so overwhelmed with relief at my prospective happiness she will find it necessary to inform our neighbors, tenants, and anyone so foolish as to stop on any road within five kilometers of Sobrik. As a result, news of our impending nuptials would surely make it round to Lady Thrask before I can ask her properly myself. I know you do not keep secrets lightly, but I beg you to do this for me, sweet sister._

_Your (favorite) brother,_

_Malavai_


	7. Bedside Manners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not a regency plot until someone takes an ill-advised sojourn in the rain.  
> Jaesa falls ill. Fortunately there is an individual at The Citadel trained in basic medical care.

Quinn looked up from sealing his letter to see Duke Baras entering the drawing room. He placed the letter in the breast pocket of his waistcoat and stood hastily, giving a polite bow.

“Good evening, Lord Quinn. I have decided to take dinner with you and my niece this evening.”

Quinn felt his heart sink – he was not looking forward to repeating the events of his first night at The Citadel, with even fewer guests to divert Baras’s attention – but kept his face carefully neutral.

“Of course, your grace. Shall I summon Mrs. Spratt to notify her of the change of plans?”

“There is no need; I have spoken to her myself.” Baras took a seat near the desk Quinn had been writing at. Quinn sat as well.

The silence stretched uncomfortably, until Baras turned to him and said, “I understand you and Maranel spent the better part of yesterday afternoon riding together. Alone.”

Quinn found he preferred the uncomfortable silence to this line of conversation. He chose his words carefully.

“We did, your grace. I must apologize for the impropriety. I assure you, I will be more careful with Lady Thrask’s reputation in future.”

To his shock, Baras waved the apology away.

“Maranel has always had an immodest streak in her, I assure you. In any case, that you have excited no small bit of gossip amongst the staff and a few of my tenants is a good thing. It will make your proposal all the more believable.”

Quinn blinked.

“You are planning to propose to her before you leave, are you not?”

“I am not, your grace,” he admitted. “My understanding was that we were to become acquainted.”

“So that you may become engaged,” Baras replied impatiently.

“I do not think Lady Thrask would respond well to an offer from a man she has known only two weeks.” Could Baras not see the disaster in such a plan? “Especially if the offer is made as an attempt to salvage her honor.”

Baras stared at him for several long moments, the anger slowly fading from his face.

“She is a proud thing, I grant you that,” Baras said thoughtfully. “But I must ask: Do you truly believe that, Lord Quinn, or are you looking for an excuse to court my niece?”

Quinn hesitated only a moment before answering, “Both, your grace.”

“Indeed. And you believe Maranel will welcome your attention?”

“I hope to be so lucky, your grace.”

Baras chuckled. “She has bewitched you rather quickly, Lord Quinn. But a week ago you insisted she would have never caught your eye.” Quinn looked for words to respond, but Baras continued, “Very well. I give you leave to court my niece. However, if you delay too long I will order her to the altar, do you understand me?”

Quinn inclined his head. “I do, your grace.”

“Good. Where is the infernal girl, anyway? Mrs. Spratt said dinner was ready to be served when I spoke to her.”

“I do not know, your grace.” It was odd for Lady Thrask to arrive late for the evening meal. “Perhaps Mrs Spratt could-“

He cut off as the door from the hallway opened and the lady in question hurried through it, a vision in cream-colored silk. She stopped short when she saw Baras and dropped an inelegant curtsey.

“Uncle, Lord Quinn. I apologize; I lost track of the hour. Shall we let Mrs. Spratt know we are ready?”

“Where is Jaesa?” Baras asked.

Lady Thrask started and looked around, as if just realizing Miss Willsaam was missing from their party.

“Oh. I’m not sure, Uncle. She has been unwell these past two days, perhaps she opted to take a meal in her room.”

“You do not know?” Baras raised an eyebrow.

She fussed with her gloves and made her way to the window next to the writing desk, where she looked out into the storm for several long moments. Quinn resisted the urge to reach out to her, trying to contain the concern he felt at her obvious disquiet.

“I’m sorry, Uncle, I was concerned about my own tardiness.” She turned back toward them, some of her poise restored. “I will go check on Jaesa.”

She moved toward the door. Quinn glanced out the window and noticed a lone rider, wrapped in a cloak with the hood up, trotting toward the stable yard. He calmly turned back to face Lady Thrask and Duke Baras.

“Nonsense, I’ll summon a maid to check on her,” Baras was saying.

“Uncle, the household staff are taking their own dinner right now. I am capable of going up a flight of stairs on my own. I will return shortly.”

She swept out of the room. Quinn waited for several minutes before excusing himself to the privy.

***

Mara hurried down the hall on the ground floor to the stable yard, praying the fortuitous hour would keep any servants or stable hands from observing Jaesa’s return. The obstinate woman had insisted on riding to Vette’s cottage first thing in the morning despite her continued sniffles. When the storm worsened, Mara delayed dressing for dinner, keeping close watch on the approach to the stable yards for her friend. She had begun to fear Jaesa would be trapped at Vette’s cottage overnight. Baras did not know about Jaesa’s relationship with Vette. Mara was unsure he would care, but she was unwilling to find out.

Still, riding in the rain had almost certainly worsened Jaesa’s illness. Looking at her slouched in her saddle, Mara almost wished she had remained at Vette’s rather than risk her health to come home. Mara hurried into the rain and reached up to squeeze Jaesa’s hand. The woman looked down at her from the depths of her hood and smiled weakly.

“It was well worth it, your grace,” she said quietly.

“I shall explain that to Vette after you die of pneumonia,” Mara snapped back.

Mara took the gelding’s bridle and led him into the stables with Jaesa still on his back. Yonlach was a gentle mount, fortunately, and did not put up a fuss. Once out of the rain, she helped Jaesa slide down to the ground and sat her down on a hay bale while she quickly stripped the horse of his tack and led him to his stall. With the horse safely away, she slipped an arm around Jaesa’s waist and led her back toward the house, eyes scanning the area for servants or other witnesses along the way.

They made it inside, but as they rounded the corner leading to the main hallway she collided with someone going the opposite direction. She knew who it was without looking up when his hands caught her waist to steady her. Despite only a week of acquaintance, Lord Quinn’s hands felt far too comfortable on her body.

“I saw Miss Willsaam arrive. What can I do?” he asked quietly, his voice just above a whisper.

Mara could not decide whether she was angry that, in following her, he risked bringing Baras’s attention to the situation, or moved by his desire to help. Looking into his eyes she found herself smiling, letting the latter take over.

“Did my uncle see anything?” She asked.

“No. He never ventured anywhere close to the window.”

She exhaled in relief. “I can get Jaesa upstairs by myself,” she said. “If you want to help me, go keep my uncle occupied.”

“Of course, I will divert Duke Baras as best I can.” He smiled. “Even though it means I have to dine with him by myself.”

Jaesa lifted her head and whispered loudly in Mara’s ear, “He must be very smitten with you if he is willing to do that.”

Quinn covered a laugh with a cough and looked away.

“Hush, you, unless you believe you can get to your room by yourself,” Mara hissed back, a blush heating her face. She looked at Quinn. “And you, don’t be silly; I will come back down as soon as Jaesa is tucked into bed.”

Quinn looked her up and down. “You will have to explain why you’re wearing an entirely different gown, in that case.”

Mara looked down at herself, only just realizing she was soaked through. Her cream-colored skirts clung to her indecently, stained with rainwater. The gown was almost certainly ruined.

“I will remain upstairs with Jaesa and send a maid to make my excuses,” she agreed, looking back up at him.

He inclined his head. “Of course, your grace. I must return to the drawing room.”

She watched him go, and then tightened her grip on Jaesa and began working her way up the stairs.

“You like him,” Jaesa murmured as they topped the stairs and turned toward their shared rooms.

“You’re delirious, Jaesa,” Mara muttered back. “We may need to summon a doctor.”

“He is so kind. And nice to look at,” Jaesa continued. “Not what I would look for, of course, but I can appreciate beauty where I see it. And yes, a doctor may be necessary.”

Mara remained silent, opening Jaesa’s door and maneuvering the woman inside. Fortunately Zara had already lain a fire and the room was cozily warm. Mara retrieved a sleeping shift and a towel from Jaesa’s armoire and helped her friend strip her sodden clothes off, leaving them in a pile on the floor. She helped Jaesa pull the shift over her head and maneuver her arms into the sleeves.

Mara turned Jaesa around, unwinding her hair from its chignon and rubbing it with the towel to take some of the moisture out of it. She inhaled sharply when she touched the other woman’s head - it was warm to the touch, and Jaesa had begun to shiver.

“Okay, into bed with you,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant. Once Jaesa was cocooned beneath her blankets, Mara yanked the bell pull.

In the time it took Zara to arrive, Mara hurried to her own room - which was on the other side of a parlor adjoining both bedchambers - and changed back into her day dress, stuffing the ruined gown under her bed for the time being, before returning to Jaesa’s room. When the maid entered and saw Jaesa’s flushed face on her pillows, she stopped short.

“Zara, I need you to go down to the dining room and make my apologies to Duke Baras. Jaesa’s illness is worse, and I will be sitting with her tonight. When that is finished, please go to the kitchen and ask Mrs. Halidrell to prepare a bowl of broth and a pot of chamomile tea with honey.”

The woman curtseyed and hurried out the door.

The next hour or so passed quickly, with Mara helping Jaesa sit up to eat the meal she’d ordered for her. Once the dark-haired woman fell asleep, Mara sank into a chair in the corner of the room, staring at her friend and unpinning her own red-black hair from its coif as she considered whether she should push her uncle to summon a doctor. It was certainly possible, even likely, that rest and warmth would be sufficient. But the fever troubled her.

A soft knock on the door jolted Mara out of a light doze. She was unsure how much time had passed. She glanced at Jaesa, who remained deeply asleep, and padded to the door and opened it just enough to peer out.

Quinn stood in the hallway, still dressed in his dinner clothes, a tray of food balanced precariously in one arm and a case of some kind in his free hand.

“May I come in, your grace?”

Mara gaped, one hand pushing her loose hair behind her shoulder to hide it. “Of course you may not,” she hissed. Riding through the countryside unchaperoned was one thing; inviting a man into their rooms was quite another.

“I was a medic in His Majesty’s Army,” he explained.

“Jaesa has not been wounded in battle, my lord,” she said dryly.

“Soldiers develop head colds, too, your grace.”

Mara stood for a moment, considering. It occurred to her he was far more likely to be seen if she left him standing in the hallway much longer, and his presence meant she did not have to involve her uncle in Jaesa’s health. She opened the door and reached out to take the tray from him.

“Come on,” she said.

He stepped into the room and she poked her head out to look up and down the hallway. Seeing no one, she closed the door. She turned to see that Quinn had already removed his dark tailcoat and draped it over a chair and was rummaging in his case for something. He certainly was making himself at home, she thought.

“What can I do?” she asked, feeling like a helpless idiot standing next to the door with a tray in her hands.

“For now,” he said without looking up, “you can eat the dinner I brought before it gets cold.”

She sputtered. “I beg your pardon-”

He looked up at her then, his face softening. “I only meant you should keep up your own strength, your grace. And I believe Mrs. Spratt will be hurt if the plate she made up for you goes to waste. I can take care of Miss Willsaam.”

She glared at him for several heartbeats. “Fine,” she said, ignoring how childish it sounded. “I’ll be in the sitting room when you’re done.” She jerked her chin toward the room’s other door. He nodded and turned back to Jaesa. As Mara left the room, she could hear him speaking to her friend in a calm, quiet voice.

Mara sat down at a small table in the sitting room. Mrs. Spratt had been thorough, giving her a generous portion of stuffed pheasant and a helping of all three side dishes that had been served with it. She’d even included a flagon of wine and a glass. Mara was impressed despite herself that Quinn had managed to get the tray up two flights of stairs without shattering the latter.

She was working her way through the helping of small red potatoes when Quinn entered the room carrying a large flask. Mara stood and hurried toward him.

“She is in no danger,” he said without preamble. “Rest is my primary recommendation, along with this.” He handed her the flask, a metal tumbler sitting neatly over the top of it. “She should have a portion of this every three hours tomorrow, with the final one taken just before bed.”

Mara took the flask, an amused smile forming on her face. “Are you an apothecary too, Lord Quinn?”

“Not at all,” he said. “This is my mother’s recipe. In my years in the military treating illness, I never saw its equal.”

“Oh.” Why should that make the offering sweeter?

She was fast learning that Quinn was not the kind of man against whom she had built up well-tended defenses. His manners were polished, as she expected of any Kaasian lord, but, aside from that first day, he took her Horusetian peculiarities in stride. That he worked to understand her and offered support when she needed it… she finally found a man whose manners were more attractive than Pierce’s, and for the exact opposite reasons.

She gripped the flask in both hands, looking into his blue eyes, her feet moving toward him of their own accord.

“You did not have to do this,” she said earnestly. “I… thank you. For everything.”

“It was nothing,” he said.

She looked behind her at the food and down at the flask in her hands, and back at him. “I disagree,” she said softly.

The backs of her fingers brushed against the front of his waistcoat.

“You were so out of sorts in the drawing room earlier. I needed to make myself useful to you.”

A lock of her hair had fallen forward over her shoulder. He reached out and ran his fingers through its glossy length before tucking it behind her ear, his fingers brushing her cheek as he did so. She shivered and laid a hand on his chest. Some part of her brain – the part that would forever be the duchess – cried out a warning. Even under the best circumstances he was a threat to her birthright, and unwed Kaasian nobility did not dally with one another casually. After marriage, with other married individuals, yes. But as they were, he would read her actions as commitment.

The warning went unheeded.

“I believe I am rather out of sorts right now, Lord Quinn,” she whispered, her fingers gripping his waistcoat.

She held his gaze. Indeed, she did not think she was capable of looking away if her life depended on it. His eyes seemed to darken with desire, from the color of a shallow sea to the deep blue of the open ocean.

“I can help with that, too, your grace.”

He reached out, his fingers twining again in her hair as he cradled the back of her head to pull her face toward his. She leaned into him eagerly, closing the remaining distance between them with the hand on his waistcoat. Her eyes slid closed, her world shrinking to nothing but darkness and the heat of his body and the singular need to have him now, and damn the consequences. She could feel his breath on her lips.

The tumbler clanged loudly when it hit the wood floor, several smaller clangs following as it bounced and rolled onto a nearby rug.

They jumped apart at the sound. She had turned the flask nearly upside down, unseating the tumbler. Fortunately the flask itself was sealed tightly, the draught inside safe. Mara bent and retrieved the tumbler, her hands shaking only slightly. She took several deep breaths, trying to calm her racing heart, as she placed both vessels on the table next to the tray. Lord, she had almost… she took another deep breath. She needed to think, and she could not do that with him standing two meters away from her.

Mara knew kissing him with her chambers so conveniently available would lead far beyond the simple touching of lips. She did not share the Kaasian obsession with chastity, but there were some things even she was not willing to do with a man she’d only known for a few days, and promises she would not make at all, or at least not without far more consideration.

“My lord, I must bid you goodnight,” she said, studying the table. The spell had been broken, but she feared looking at him would reignite the all-consuming need to feel his mouth on hers. The desire was still present even now, but manageable.

“Your grace, I apologize profusely, I never meant-“

She did look at him, then, one hand gripping the edge of the table tightly.

“Lord Quinn,” she cut him off gently. “Please do not apologize for offering me something I desire.”

He stared at her, his lips twitching as if he wanted to smile but could not decide if it was entirely appropriate to do so.

“I shall keep that in mind, Lady Thrask,” he replied.

“I cannot… I need to think about this further before…” she trailed off.

He nodded, mercifully sparing her the need to say the words. She smiled gratefully.

“Wait here,” she said. Mara tiptoed through Jaesa’s room to retrieve his tailcoat and case. His coat smelled of him, leaving her with the ridiculous urge to keep it. Even aside from Quinn’s need for the garment and the message she would convey if she asked to keep it, she worried about Zara or one of the other maids stumbling across it.

She led him to the parlor door that opened into the main hallway. His fingers brushed hers as he took his coat from her.

“Sleep well, your grace,” he said, just a hint of flirtation in his voice.

“And you as well, my lord” she replied, matching his tone.

She opened the door and peered out into the hallway. It was deserted. She motioned him through the door and resisted the urge to watch him walk away.


	8. Sparring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baras manipulates. Quinn convinces himself he's totally not lying; Mara convinces herself she is very much in control of her life. Their flirtation becomes slightly more physical.

The following morning Mara walked into the breakfast room to find her uncle sitting at the table with a newspaper, a steaming cup of black coffee next to him. She pressed her lips together; her uncle rarely broke his fast with her and whenever he did the remainder of her day was usually marred by the experience.

Setting her shoulders, she entered the room and served herself from the sideboard, a portion of oatmeal with sweet cream and a link of sausage. A footman took the plate and a cup of coffee to the table.

“Good morning, Uncle,” she said guardedly as she sat down and reached for a pot of cream to lighten her coffee.

“Good morning, Maranel,” he replied, lowering the paper and laying it on the table next to his coffee. “How is Jaesa doing this morning?”

Mara blinked, taken aback by the question. She had not expected him to care; more to the point this line of conversation could be dangerous. “She is still weak, but better this morning, thank you.” She smiled. “Mrs. Halidrell is running the maids ragged sending up remedies for every ailment she can think of. Poor Jaesa may float away given the number of herbal concoctions she’s drunk this morning.”

“Mrs. Halidrell is a force of nature,” Baras agreed. “I’m impressed she has the time to act the mother hen with you ladies while still getting our meals to table on time.”

“She runs her kitchen better than most ships in His Majesty’s fleet, I’d wager.”

For several long moments the only sound in the room was that of the storm outside. Mara picked at her breakfast while Baras sipped his coffee. She wished Quinn would join them, if for no other reason than to split her uncle’s attention. Then the events of the previous evening flashed through her mind - his hand on her neck, his chest moving under her hand when his breath quickened - and thought better of it. Indeed, it would not surprise her if the earl were purposely avoiding both his hosts this morning.

"Is there news on the war?” she asked, nodding toward the paper.

Baras shrugged. “Nothing notable; plenty of skirmishes but the battle lines remain fundamentally unchanged. The Dark Council will discuss revised strategies when it begins its session next month.”

Mara nodded, thinking of Pierce and the soiled letter he’d sent her. His regiment had been recalled to Kaas City for a rotation acting as city guard and aides to the Dark Councilors, but they would return to the front all too soon. The skirmishes her uncle dismissed as meaningless took their toll on the men of the King’s Army.

“Oh, there is one thing of note,” Baras said. He waited for Mara to look up. “Ryland’s son was listed amongst the most recent casualties.”

Ryland ran an orchard on Baras’s estate. His son, up until his enlistment, had been his chief farmhand during the harvest. Mara put down her spoon and, with an effort, kept her voice serene.

“I should think that news would be the first you told me, Uncle,” she said. “I will ride out to his farm today to express your condolences.”

Baras waved away her polite rebuke. “I sent a man down this morning to do so. There is no need to rush off.”

Mara nodded, but made a mental note to visit Ryland in any case to see if he needed assistance. Her uncle kept a very hands-off approach to managing his tenants, which most appreciated. It was a mixed blessing, however, as Duke Baras tended to react strongly to any problems that did reach his attention, resulting in eviction for the tenant in question (or near-eviction, as with the Nelsons). It was a stupid way to run an estate. Indeed, Mara sometimes wondered why she bothered to intervene and keep the estate running smoothly when it could serve her better to let the land languish under her uncle’s mismanagement. But she knew the answer: she hated seeing anyone subjected to her uncle’s caprice.

“I cannot help but notice you have been spending quite a bit of time with Earl Quinn, my niece,” Baras said quietly.

Mara froze, then cursed herself and forced her body to relax. “Lord Quinn provides pleasing company, Uncle, but nothing more.”

He chuckled, clearly having noticed her initial reaction. “I know you well enough to see when you are smitten, Maranel.” He shook his head, smiling. “I must confess I had thought you too smart to set your sights on a financially-troubled nobleman below your rank. But then…” he trailed off for several heartbeats, his too-dark eyes searching her face. “I always look for him in you, you know.”

Mara blinked. “For whom? For… Father?”

Baras nodded, his gaze still staring at and through her. “It is a pity all you inherited from Gilad is an unladylike glare and a proclivity for imprudent matches.”

Mara felt her eyes narrow, but she held her tongue.

“And there he is,” Baras said, shaking his head again. He drained the last of his coffee and stood. “I know you believe I do not care for your wellbeing, Maranel, but I beg you to believe me when I say, whatever good qualities the earl may have, he will not make you happy.”

“I believe I am the best judge of that, sir,” she replied shortly.

“So stubborn,” Baras said, a touch of sadness in his voice. “Good day, Maranel.”

Mara watched him leave, twisting the napkin in her lap so tightly she felt certain it would shred itself under the strain. She pushed her half-eaten breakfast away and stood, managing to keep her gait somewhat ladylike until she flung open a door that opened onto a covered walkway. It provided a few moments of fresh air as she stomped across it and entered the estate’s greenhouse.

The greenhouse was huge by any standard – half the footprint of the main house, large enough to have an open green at its center that allowed her uncle and his forebears to host garden parties in any season or weather condition. The foliage around the green was artfully arranged and so thick one could easily forget it was contained within huge glass walls.

Mara stalked through the foliage, her stomach twisting with fury. That her uncle had discovered her attraction to Quinn was not surprising; she had not been subtle in her teasing flirtation, and Quinn’s pale skin bore the slightest of blushes like a brand. That her uncle would needle her about it was even less surprising; he no doubt saw her attachment as weakness. And it was attachment. In light of the prior evening, Mara had to admit that much to herself. She could picture her uncle sitting in his study, that sadistic smile on his face, when he realized the extent of her attraction to his guest.

All of that was typical for the fraught relationship she had with her uncle. The source of her fury was that he dared invoke her father’s name in toying with her. He had never done that before. He was gloating, such was the extent of the vulnerability Baras perceived in her, and it filled her veins with a fiery rage.

She smiled tightly, the smile of a predator realizing she had her quarry cornered. If she kept her wits about her, this could prove to be the opportunity she had waited for. Duke Baras was at his most careless when lording over a defeated foe.

The information on Quinn’s finances would prove useful, a slip up Baras would not have made under different circumstances. She had wondered early on if the earl might be the key to gaining an upper hand over her uncle; today’s conversation proved that suspicion correct. Her own estate could almost certainly absorb whatever financial losses Balmorra was experiencing, a fact that would no doubt induce the earl to ally with her against her uncle.

And if that political alliance became personal, given the correct arrangements, Mara could not say she would mind.

She arrived at her destination: a corner of the green set up as a weapons training area. Three targets sat neatly on one edge of the grass. Forty paces away, several small tables ran parallel to the targets. On the corner of the green sat a small weatherproof shed that served as a small armory. She retrieved a pistol case and several cartridges before walking to one of the preparation tables.

As she was ramming the ball and cartridge into the breech, she heard footsteps approaching and looked up just as Quinn exited the foliage that surrounded the green. He stopped short when he saw her, a blush evident on his face even from a distance of several meters.

“Lady Thrask, I-” He caught himself and bowed. “Good morning.”

“My lord,” she responded, a slight tease to her voice, and curtseyed in return. “You are welcome to join me.”

“Are you certain?”

She jammed the ramrod down the barrel of the pistol one last time with more force than was strictly necessary before sliding it back into its housing beneath the barrel.

“Yes, Lord Quinn, I do believe I understood the meaning of the words I uttered.”

He closed the distance between them.

“Are you learning to shoot?” He asked.

Mara looked deliberately at the pistol in her hand and back at him. The barrel was standard length, but the grip had been fitted for her hand. “Upon my word, Lord Quinn, you do deal in the obvious when flustered.”

“You must forgive me, your grace, if I am flustered in your presence, for I cannot help it.” His blue eyes, made bluer by his matching tailcoat, bored into hers.

She measured a bit of powder into the pan and shook her head, bemused. “Do not try so hard, my lord.” She looked up at him. “Still, I must agree that I am rather wonderful, so I will allow the compliment to stand.”

“And so modest, too,” he countered with a smirk.

“Naturally.”

She shifted her body toward the target and reached out with her free hand to cock the hammer. Quinn’s hands on her shoulders stopped her.

“Turn a bit more,” he said quietly. He was standing close enough that his breath ruffled her hair when he spoke.

Mara smiled and allowed herself to be moved by him.

“Good, now cock the hammer,” Mara kept a tight rein over the urge to laugh as she followed his instructions, cocking the pistol and extending her arm before squeezing the trigger. Quinn’s hand on her arm held her steady in the half heartbeat it took the charge to fire and against the pistol’s kickback.

Mara released the trigger of the pistol and bent her arm so it was pointed upward. Quinn waved the smoke away and peered through the haze toward the target. The ball had torn it neatly through the bullseye.

“I do believe you are ready to fight a duel, Lady Thrask,” Quinn said.

“Do you think so?”

Her voice was sweet but dripped with sarcasm. He tensed behind her. Before he could ask how he had offended, she turned to the table and picked up the next cartridge, tearing it with her teeth and emptying the powder into the barrel of the pistol to begin reloading. Her movements were practiced and efficient. Within seconds she snapped the frizzen into place over the pan. In one smooth motion she raised the pistol, cocked it with her free hand, and fired. The ball embedded itself in the target nearly on top of its sibling.

Quinn gaped, annoyed and impressed all at once.

“Do you enjoy watching me make a fool of myself?” he asked.

She turned to face him, her brow furrowed over her amber eyes as she regarded him. “I enjoy teasing you, my lord,” she said at last, the words at odds with the earnestness in her voice. “I am sorry, I have found myself treating you…” she trailed off. “I forget you are not used to our ways,” she said simply.

Quinn cocked his head, the implied compliment in her words not lost on him. “Ah, I see. Yes, Lady Temple’s writings were rather animated describing the peculiar dynamic of the married couples she observed,” he said.

Mara nodded. “Indeed. Horusetian men, those interested in women at any rate, do not expect to be coddled by their wives. To the enhanced happiness of all involved, in my opinion.”

“And you, Lady Thrask,” he said, looking her straight in the eye. “You wish to treat me as a sith woman treats her husband?”

Her eyes widened and her lovely mouth dropped open. Quinn smiled, rather pleased with himself. It lasted only a few heartbeats, however, for she recovered and her eyes narrowed with a challenge.

“You may not enjoy that as much as you imagine, Lord Quinn,” she said.

“You underestimate me, your grace,” he responded, lowering his face toward hers, and then nearly falling over when she turned and walked away from him briskly, toward a small shed. He made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat.

She looked over her shoulder at him. “Are Kaasian military men trained to use those swords you so enjoy dressing up with?”

It took him a moment to process the question. “Of course,” he said cautiously.

“Good.” She removed two sabers from the shed – an arms cache, he realized – and returned, offering one to him hilt-first. “If you wish to court a sith woman, Lord Quinn, you must first test yourself against her.”

“I beg your pardon.” He stared in shock at the hilt, his mind racing. “I do not recall-“

“Lady Temple did not write of it because it is an old tradition that is rarely invoked, especially after the King’s War. But a lady may exercise her discretion in these matters, and I should like to know what lies beneath all that Kaasian propriety.”

She smiled. In that moment she was equal parts coquette and predator, and Quinn had never wanted a woman more in his life. He removed his tailcoat and draped it over the table next to them and accepted the sword from her. He raised his chin and his weapon, ignoring the part of his brain that reminded him what training he had was buried beneath years of other pursuits and training with more modern weapons.

She must have seen something in his face, for she softened slightly – from a coiled predator to a lounging one – and said, “The goal is not to win, but to impress, my lord. Those are not the same thing.”

He nodded, not entirely sure what that meant in a practical sense. He had little time to contemplate the matter, however, as she raised her weapon and lunged at him. He had half a heartbeat to admire her form before he clumsily brought his own blade up to parry, stumbling back a step. She paused and he attacked, testing her defenses. She turned his blade aside with a casual, almost bored, flick of her wrist.

“I do not think you are taking this seriously, my lord,” she said, sweeping her weapon toward his thighs. He yelped in surprise at the move and stepped back quickly, catching her blade on his. She pressed forward, unrelenting, her saber sliding past his to slice a button from his waistcoat. He gaped at her.

“Do not fear hurting me. I doubt you could if you tried,” she taunted him.

He settled back into a defensive stance, a silent invitation to her. She took it cautiously. As she advanced her sword arm dropped slightly. He took advantage of the opening, landing a touch that left a slit in the fabric of her dress, the white petticoat showing through. She looked down at it and back at him, a pleased smile on her face.

They continued. She was better than he; there was no question. But she seemed less interested in besting him than in his commitment to the exercise, to taking the openings she offered and trusting she was skilled enough to avoid injury. After a time, they were both breathing heavily.

She took that moment to ask, “What precisely is the nature of the business you are conducting with my uncle?”

He stumbled. “What?”

She met his gaze, her blade caressing his. “What does he hold over you? He never invites someone to come here for business unless he has the upper hand.”

She advanced on him, steel clashing as she moved in short, sharp attacks.

“Debt,” he said raggedly, surprising himself. “My father owed your uncle a great deal of money.”

She nodded. “I have two pieces of advice for you, Lord Quinn.”

She pressed her advantage. He deflected her blows desperately, backing up across the path between the green. He took a desperate swing at her shoulder. She parried with the saber in her right hand, holding the weapon above her head with the blade pointing downward behind the shoulder she was protecting. As steel pinged off steel, her free hand grabbed his sword arm at the wrist and she shoved him backward until his back hit something solid – a tree, he realized –with a bone-jarring thump. She pinned his sword arm against the tree trunk and her saber landed on its flat against his shoulder. He craned his neck to look down at it. If she drew it downward, at the correct angle and with enough force, she could open his skin from neck to belly.

He shifted his eyes back to hers calmly. Had she wanted to hurt him she could have done so many times over by now. She nodded in approval.

“I believe you just lost this match, Lady Thrask,” he said conversationally, nodding toward her hand around his wrist.

She shrugged and inched closer to him, one of her legs planted firmly between his, the skirt of her dress pressed against his knees. “But you’re impressed, are you not?”

Her golden-orange eyes were practically glowing with the exertion of their sparring, her hair slightly mussed. She was so very near, he could barely gather his thoughts. How had he ever feared he would not be attracted to her?

“I am more impressed than I can say,” he answered her question hoarsely.

“As am I with you. Now, to my promised advice,” she said, her voice becoming businesslike. He dragged his mind back to the matter at hand. “First, do not trust my uncle. Take advice before stipulating to anything in writing. I have never seen him enter an arrangement he could not weasel out of if it suited him.”

His eyes narrowed. “I had already surmised that much, Lady Thrask.”

“Second,” she spoke over him slightly, “you should look for alliances where they present themselves. No one can withstand my uncle alone, nor do you need to.”

His heart was already racing, both from exertion and desire. As she spoke, impossibly, it raced harder until he was sure it would explode.

“Are you…” he took a breath. “Are you offering such an alliance, your grace?”

“I could be persuaded, yes,” she answered. “My lands produce durasteel; yours produce weapons. You must see there is logic to the arrangement.”

He closed his eyes, guilt panging him for the first time since he signed the marriage contract. She had no idea the extent of his estate’s crisis, but she freely offered her resources to him. In defiance of Duke Baras, yes, but still. He opened his eyes and met her gaze. He had to tell her. He opened his mouth…

… And closed it again. The marriage contract was the only reason they were together now. He had been truthful with Baras – was that meeting really only a week ago? – when he said Lady Thrask would not have caught his eye without her uncle’s prompting. That did not speak well of him, he knew, and it felt utterly foreign to him now as he stared into her amber eyes and imagined taking her here, laying her down on the grass to demonstrate how much he had come to adore her. But it was the truth.

Then he imagined the opposite: Lady Thrask stalking away from him angrily when he confessed everything to her, possibly after running him through with the saber in her hand.

The contract was signed and recorded. There was nothing he could do, however much he may wish otherwise. But he could earn her love first, before the blow came, and perhaps thereby soften it slightly. Duke Baras, difficult as he had proven to be, was still correct on that point.

In the grip of such contradictory feelings, he did the only thing he could do. Heedless of the blade next to his neck, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers.

She made a surprised sound. He tried to pull away, to apologize, but when their lips separated she pursued him. His free hand slipped around her waist to pull her tightly against him, and he heard the whisper of steel against the brocade of his waistcoat as she leaned into him. His veins sang with need that was only enhanced by the feel of her body against his. Her lips parted eagerly and he swept his tongue into her mouth, tasting her for the first time, nearly coming undone when she hummed quietly into his mouth. She surprised him when she bit his lower lip gently and took control, her tongue sliding into his mouth in turn, her hips rolling against his ever so slightly. He bit back a groan of pleasure but was certain she could feel the proof of how much he wanted her pressed against her thigh.

She broke the kiss and pulled back, looking up at him thoughtfully as she fought to catch her breath.

“Is that persuasive enough for you, your grace?” he asked.

“It is an admirable start, Lord Quinn.”

She continued to study him, her body still pressed against his, his arm around her waist. She moved her saber from his shoulder. His relief turned to a wince when she stabbed it point-first into the loamy ground next to them. Still, there was little else to do with the weapons at present, so when she released his sword arm he did the same. After a moment’s hesitation, he slid his other arm around her waist. She did not protest. Instead, she laced her fingers behind his neck, appearing utterly comfortable in his arms.

“You must know I cannot access my estate until my next birthday, months from now, and I will not take any action before then,” she said

“I believe I can keep the duke at bay until then,” he said carefully, choosing his words so as to avoid any outright lies. “Am I to interpret this,” he stroked her cheek, “as an indication as to the kind of alliance you would prefer?”

She smiled. “I am exploring my options, my lord, but I am not opposed to mixing business with pleasure,” she replied.

She pushed away from him and he released her, sternly quelling his disappointment.

“Think on what I’ve said,” she said softly. “And please, return these to the armory.”

She turned and walked away. He stared after her, still leaning against the tree weakly.

***

The rest of the second week passed quickly. The weather cleared, though the chill of fall was now in the air. Quinn accompanied Lady Thrask on most of her rides, excepting one she took with Jaesa toward the middle of the week, and joined the ladies for dinner in the evenings. Pierce joined them twice, riding out from Kaas City. Quinn was still not particularly fond of the other man or his familiar, rough manner toward Lady Thrask. But he knew better, based on the conversation he’d overheard his first night at The Citadel, than to feel threatened by him.

Two nights before his planned departure from The Citadel, a letter arrived from Lord Marr ordering Quinn’s return to Kaas City in preparation for the sitting of the Dark Council.

“May I have a moment, your grace?”

Mara looked up from her embroidery at the now-familiar voice of Lord Quinn. He stood in the doorway to the music room, where Mara was perched on a setee in front of a window trying to take advantage of what little light could be gleaned from the stormy skies outside. They had awoken that morning to another fall storm.

“Of course,” She gestured to the place next to her. “Please, sit.”

He obeyed, settling next to her as she laid her embroidery aside. The embroidery was a mess; she did not have Jaesa or even Vette’s talent for the craft, but it was a skill she cultivated as a method of keeping her hands occupied during fraught conversations. Any number of unfortunately-adorned handkerchiefs had kept her from throttling her uncle over the years.

“I am afraid I must take my leave of you, Lady Thrask. The Dark Council has recalled me to prepare for the new session.”

“Oh,” she said carefully. Was that disappointment dragging her heart toward the pit of her stomach? “I am sorry to hear that, Lord Quinn.” She turned toward him, and with a start realized he was dressed far too formally for travel: deep grey wool coat over a black brocade waistcoat. Beyond that there was a tension in him, the cause of which she could not determine.

“I presume you plan to make a rather grand re-entrance to Kaas City,” she said. “Though the effect may be spoiled by the rain.”

He smiled, a little of his tension draining away. “Not at all. Lord Marr requested my immediate presence upon returning to town. Your uncle has been so kind as to lend me his carriage. Ghost and my personal effects will be taken separately to Gorinth House.”

He paused for a moment, and then turned to her, his manner suddenly formal. “Lady Thrask, I had a more particular reason for seeking you out before my departure.”

Mara froze. Surely he could not be so stupid as to…

“I wonder if you would grant me the privilege of corresponding with you while I am away.”

She relaxed and found herself smiling, genuinely pleased by his request. “Of course,” she replied. “I shall look forward to it, in fact.”

He studied her intently, apparently having noticed the shift in her body language. The man was far too observant for his own good, she thought ruefully. He was about to speak when Lucas appeared in the doorway to announce the carriage was waiting. The butler withdrew, but not far, Mara guessed, certainly not far enough to be out of earshot.

“You thought I was going to make a very different request of you,” Quinn said, lowering his voice to just above a whisper as he slowly pulled his eyes from the doorway and back to her.

Mara shrugged and matched the volume of his voice. “I have seen many a stupider action from Kaasian lords. You must forgive me.”

He waved the apology away. “There is nothing to forgive; I am aware of the boorish tendencies of my fellows. Will you be in town for the season?”

“Of course. Duke Baras would not dawdle in the country while the government is active. We have not fixed a date of departure yet.”

He smiled. “I will count the days until your arrival.”

“Will you truly miss my presence so?” she asked, pleased at the thought.

He reached out and trailed his fingertips down her arm, from the edge of her sleeve to her wrist She shivered at his touch.

“As much as you will miss mine,” he answered.

“Touché, my lord,” she conceded.

He stood, and she stood with him. In a more normal voice he said, “Lady Thrask, it has been my extreme pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure has been mutual, my lord,” she replied.

He took her offered hand and raised it to his lips. As forward as the kiss had seemed the afternoon of their first meeting, it was nothing compared to now. He stood close enough to her that her arm nestled against his chest when he placed a lingering kiss on the back of her hand. When he pulled away she turned her hand in his to caress his cheek.

“Safe travels, Lord Quinn.”

He kissed her palm and she pulled her hand away. He stepped away from her and bowed respectfully before joining Lucas in the corridor.


	9. Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mara and Quinn begin a correspondence. Quinn's written flirtation skills are... questionable, shall we say, a fact which drives Mara to a slight distraction.

_My Dear Lady Thrask,  
   
I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits. You will laugh, I think, when you calculate how quickly I must have written and posted this after my arrival back in town. I am not too proud, nor am I too afraid of exciting your vanity, to admit how you have occupied my thoughts since I left you yesterday morning. Indeed, I hope discharging this letter to you as soon as possible may offer me a respite from your constant mental presence so that I may concentrate on my work.  
   
And there is much work to be done. Lord Marr occupied me and several other adjutants late into yesterday evening. It would seem the Dark Council is making a wholesale evaluation of our current troop deployments and has asked us to analyze likely outcomes for strategies various members have posed for the war going forward. The number of variables inherent in each scenario is legion; indeed, working nearly round the clock I am concerned we cannot complete an analysis on each in time for the Council to review them all before the session begins next month.  
   
I returned to Gorinth House in the small hours of this morning, only in time to be greeted by my own bed, and rose with the sun about an hour ago. I must tell you, as amiable hosts as you and your uncle were, I am gratified to be back in my own home despite the demands of my position with the Council. I visited Ghost this morning in the stables. The poor fellow seems, like me, content to be home, but his spirits are a bit depressed at having been deprived of Fury’s company. Perhaps it is wrong to say his spirits are depressed, but rather that he is back to normal from a particular high he seemed to experience in her presence. You must bring the mare to Kaas City when you come; my poor beast will be only too happy to run with her again.  
   
I must close as Lord Marr is expecting me within the hour. Be well, your grace, and give my regards to Miss Willsaam and Vette.  
   
Yours,  
Malavai Quinn_

***

“A letter has arrived for you, your grace.”  
   
Vette met Mara’s eyes across the whist table and raised her eyebrows suggestively.  
   
“That was fast,” she teased. “He only left yesterday morning.”  
   
Mara took the letter and stared at it for a long moment. She turned it over and slid her thumb beneath the sealing wax but seemed to change her mind before it broke. She placed it on the table and looked up at Vette.  
   
“Let’s win this trick first, Vette.”  
   
She slapped an ace of clubs down on the table. Pierce groaned.  
   
“For the love of-“ He glared at Mara. “An ace and the trump suit? I think you’re a cheat, m’lady.”  
   
As Jaesa played her next card in the trick, Mara’s hand flew to her chest, her face a portrait of courtly affront.  
   
“Upon my honor, Lieutenant Pierce, I am simply aghast you would stoop to such slander over a card game.”  
   
Vette snickered and laid out her own card – a nine of diamonds, the trick suit – to end the round. A quick tally showed she and Mara had won the game handily. This did nothing to soothe Pierce’s grousing. Mara simply sat back in her chair, smiling innocently, as Pierce accused her of all manner of underhanded tricks, the fingertips of her left hand stroking the letter idly.  
   
As she rose to refill her coffee cup, Vette couldn’t help but smile. After two weeks of Earl Quinn’s presence, it was nice to return to their usual after-dinner group dynamic. She had nothing against the man, precisely, and had in fact enjoyed his sputtering outrage whenever she could provoke it. But it was not the same as the relaxed atmosphere they enjoyed now.  
   
Mara and Pierce had reached a detente in their argument. The duchess picked up the letter and moved to a sofa near the fire, patting Pierce on the shoulder along the way. Vette walked to Jaesa’s chair and slipped her arm around her shoulders. Jaesa leaned her dark head against Vette’s hip.  
   
“Does she get this excited when my letters arrive?” Pierce asked.  
   
“No. Oh, she hates it when they don’t arrive. But she can usually wait until company is gone before reading them,” Jaesa replied.  
   
Vette shook her head. “I can’t imagine what he could have to say that warrants such anticipation.”  
   
Pierce barked a short laugh. “There can’t be much room in his head for imagination; too stuffed full of regulations and social niceties.” He looked over his shoulder at Mara, whose head was still bent over the letter, a slight frown on her face. “Is she so desperate for male company? I’ve got a few enlisted men who could give her a far more exciting time.”  
   
“I can hear you, Pierce,” Mara said without looking up. “And thank you, but no.”  
   
Mara turned the paper over, as if hoping for more text, and glared at it when she found none. Jaesa frowned at Vette and Pierce, for Jaesa that was tantamount to a glare of reproach, and left the table to sit next to Mara on the sofa.  
   
“Are you okay, your grace?”  
   
Mara looked up and gave Jaesa the briefest of smiles.  
   
“What does he say?” Vette asked, joining them.  
   
Pierce looked like he would rather be anywhere else discussing anything other than a letter from Mara’s latest Kaasian suitor, but he simply grunted, refilled his brandy snifter, and joined them.  
   
“Oh, nothing of consequence; he writes about his work and,” she smiled slightly, “how he misses me. But he is terribly formal. And there’s a bit about his horse that I cannot make out at all.”  
   
She waved the letter at Vette, who took it and scanned it quickly.  
   
“I don’t know what you expected, Mara,” Vette said. “This sounds exactly like he speaks.”  
   
“In company,” Mara insisted. “In groups where he is less comfortable. Not…” she grimaced as if realizing how besotted and ridiculous she sounded, but she pressed on. “Not with me. Not alone.”  
   
Jaesa took the letter and looked it over as well.  
   
“I think the bit about the horse is flirtation,” she said suddenly.  
   
“No,” Mara breathed.  
   
Vette fought back a grin. Surely the man was better at love letters than that. Everyone was better at love letters than that.  
   
“Yes, he writes about how despondent Ghost is without Fury. Why would the horse care? No, he is… flirting in metaphor.”  
   
Vette and Pierce exploded with laughter. Mara slumped against the back of the sofa, both hands pressed to her face, and groaned. Vette grabbed the letter from Jaesa and re-read it.  
   
“This is too wonderful,” she gasped between laughter. “Mara, this is the best love letter you have ever received.” A thought struck her, and she was overcome with giggles once more. “Oh, _please_ tell me you will answer in kind? And praise Ghost’s intensely blue eyes and, how did you put it, well-filled out trousers?”  
   
Mara, face still covered with her hands, shook her head violently. Vette could see her body beginning to shake with repressed laughter.  
   
“Well, I see I have much to live up to when I write to you next, Nel,” Pierce said. “Not sure I could be this entertaining if I tried.”  
   
“But then,” he grinned, “His Lordliness wasn’t really trying, either.”  
   
At that, Mara doubled over, laughing openly. After several long moments she straightened, gasping for breath. She gestured, and Vette handed the letter back to her.  
   
“All of you are horribly rude,” she said, smiling helplessly. She looked down at the letter and shook her head. “What in the world am I going to do with this?”  
   
“Tell him how you’d like to ride Ghost yourself,” Vette replied without hesitation.  
   
The entire room collapsed back into laughter.

 

* * *

  
   
With a heaving sigh, Quinn let himself fall backward onto his bed in Gorinth House. He knew he would need to undress – or remove his cravat, and boots at least – but for the moment he was content staring up at the ceiling of his bedchamber. The clock on his mantle had struck half past two in the morning when he walked into the room.  
   
The headache that had begun hours ago throbbed in time with his heartbeat. General Broysc had once again haunted the younger adjutants at the Council chambers today, laying out, in painful detail, his plans for taking the city of Corellia. Of no strategic importance and deep behind enemy lines, the proposed action was at best a fool’s errand, and at worst a strategic blunder of catastrophic proportions. Given the other, more feasible, deployments being proposed, any time spent analyzing this ridiculous suggestion was a spectacular waste. Most other adjutants had agreed.  
   
Until Broysc spent an hour in each adjutant’s office. Two had backed away from their conclusions entirely. A few others had passed their assignments to Quinn, unwilling to lie but also unwilling to risk Broysc’s ire.  
   
Which meant, for the moment, all of the aging general’s considerable rage was focused squarely on Quinn. The man had spent two hours in his offices this evening, refusing to leave, refusing to be silent, and threatening every kind of ruin imaginable should Quinn cross him.  
   
“I shall see you stripped of your commission, do you hear me? Who the blazes do you think you are to contradict my wisdom? Your insolence and malcontent shall-“ Broysc paused, a cruel glint in his water eyes, “Admiral Malcontent. That is what I shall call you. I am the hero of Druckenwell. I was planning battles before your father even entered boarding school. Do not get in my way, Malcontent, or you shall be stripped of your rank and title, your lands forfeit, for your treason.”  
   
And so it went. The man scarcely stopped to draw breath. It wasn’t until one of the other adjutants alerted Lord Marr to the situation that the general was led away. Quinn’s work in the subsequent hours after the confrontation had suffered both in efficiency and quality, hence the late night.  
   
Quinn sat up, massaging his temples. For a moment he imagined a pair of strong red hands sliding up his back and over his shoulders, her body pressed against him as she hugged him from behind, her silken voice murmuring low in his ear, promising all manner of amorous pleasures.  
   
He sighed and stood, banishing the image with no small amount of difficulty as he began stripping out of his clothes. In the weeks since his return to town, it had become a familiar fantasy, the image of Lady Thrask in this room, the ardor of her desire matching his.  
   
Just as intense, but far more constant, was the simple longing for her presence; to see her smile and hear her laughter and to discuss these weighty matters with her. To be without this blasted distance and the pretense of courtship.  
   
Clad in a nightshirt and robe, he sat down at his writing desk and lit a candle for additional light. He was exhausted, but sleep would not come anytime soon. Instead, he laid out a fresh sheet of paper and began to write.

***  
   
The following morning Quinn sat in his parlor, the morning newspaper pushed aside, staring at the letter in his hands. Mara’s elegant handwriting filled the page, a ladylike disguise for the saucy impertinence of her words. The woman began her letter promising, “For the good of the country, I will try to make myself boring and plain so that you may concentrate.” It was a ridiculous statement by any measure, made even more so by her final paragraph:  
   
_I must tell you I am highly distressed at hearing of Ghost’s present difficulties. After reading your letter I visited Fury in her stall and found, to my surprise, that she also seems a bit despondent beyond what could be explained by the weather. Nothing - not apples nor sugar nor carrots - has the same restorative effect it once did, as if the world has paled ever so slightly now that her companion has returned to his own domain. Though, to be frank, I’m unsure if she misses Ghost’s company generally or merely the delight she took in harassing him during our rides. You must remember how she enjoyed subjecting him to as many little annoyances as she could conceive of. It is most likely both. We only tease those we truly enjoy, do we not?  
   
Fondly,  
Fury_  
   
He could picture the insolent smirk she must have worn when she added her final flourish, signing as “Fury”. In doing so she stripped all pretense away from his original attempts to communicate his adoration for her without descending into ungentlemanly directness. In retrospect, he should have expected her to respond thus to his attempts to keep to propriety.  
   
He felt a smirk of his own form as he sat down at his writing desk and added a second sheet of paper to the letter he had started in the wee hours of the morning. If she wished to forego polite fiction, so be it. His pen moved of its own accord, confessing to his longing for her company and the licentious imaginings that chased him to sleep every night since their parting. He begged for intelligence on her likely arrival date in town to alleviate his suffering. He offered himself to her, fully and completely.  
   
He rose and dressed for the day, answered letters concerning his estate, and broke his fast. Several hours later he picked up the letter for Lady Thrask to apply his seal. At some unknown prompting, he flipped to the second page and scanned it. As he read back the words he’d put down only hours ago, his face slowly went up in flames as his gut twisted in horror.  
   
He could not send it like this. Looking at it with a slight distance, he could not tell if he were confessing an undying love or propositioning her. Or both. To dishonor her with such vulgarity… no. He turned and dropped the page into the fireplace, watching as it curled in on itself and turned to ash.  
   
He stared at what was left: his single page about Broysc. He read it again and found himself pleased with its propriety, demonstrating his respect and admiration for her through his desire for her opinion and advice. He nodded to himself; surely that would be sufficient. He signed the bottom of the page and sealed the letter.  
   
He was extremely at peace with himself when he left the letter with his butler to be posted.

***  
   
“What did you do?”  
   
Ovech lowered the letter - Lady Thrask’s response to his letter about Broysc - to fix Quinn with a shrewd stare, tendrils of smoke curling upward from the cigar in his other hand. His voice held a longsuffering fondness that Quinn recognized well from their decades of friendship. Quinn and Ovech had been at Carida together, remained inseparable at university and enlisted in the King’s Army side-by-side.

They sat in deep, plush leather chairs in a drawing room at Karrde’s, a gambling hell to which they’d both been elected when they returned to Dromund Kaas after their first tour of duty.  
   
“I wish I knew,” Quinn answered the question with a sigh, lifting a brandy snifter to his lips.  
   
Lady Thrask’s most recent letter could not have been more opposite from her first. She advised him about Broysc - “Lord Quinn, if Broysc is indeed leaning on those tasked with answering his plan honestly and for the good of the country, you must find someone with more weight and bend their ear” - and answered his question about her planned arrival in town - “My uncle has decided we will arrive two weeks from today”. But where the first letter had been a study in coquetry, the second was more in line with a duchess issuing instructions to a high-ranking but frustrating servant.  
   
“Those closing lines,” Ovech breathed, impressed.  
   
Quinn grunted in response; they were rather masterful, assuming her aim was to deliver a punch to the gut. The lines were seared into his mind he’d read them so many times over the past two weeks.  
   
_If you are so inclined, my lord, you may call on me the afternoon of our arrival. I shall think none the worse of you, however, if you are otherwise occupied. The tone of your last letter would seem to indicate your hours are rather full.  
   
Yours, etc.,  
Lady Maranel Thrask_  
   
“She mentions the tone of your last letter,” Ovech said, his gaze connecting with Quinn’s. “What was your letter about?”  
   
“Council business, mostly,” Quinn said, frowning. “I asked for her advice about Broysc.”  
   
“And?”  
   
“And what?”  
   
“What else did you say?” Ovech’s hazel eyes widened suddenly. “Damnit, Mal, you didn’t say anything else, did you?”  
   
“I asked about when she would be in town! I told her I missed her.”  
   
“What were your exact words?” That longsuffering tone was back, this time mixed with resignation.  
   
Quinn looked at the ceiling, trying to remember. It had been just over three weeks since he’d written them.  
   
“‘I’ve missed our talks’, I think.”  
   
Ovech groaned. “How so brilliant a man can be so stupid I will never know,” He grumbled.  
   
“It was a very reasoned choice, Xandir,” Quinn replied tersely. “I do not want her to think I’m some rutting animal.”  
   
“And what, pray tell, would give her that impression?”  
   
Quinn blushed, remembering the sensation of the tree trunk against his back, and her soft body pressed against his front, the taste of her on his tongue. He suddenly re-lived every shameful fantasy he’d had since returning to Kaas City.  
   
“Ah,” Ovech said. He held up his hands, “Say no more, I don’t wish to know the particulars of your relationship with the lady. But I gather _something_ happened between you in the country?”  
   
Quinn nodded.  
   
“And you truly don’t understand why a letter that ignores such a history would rankle?”  
   
“That was not my intention,” Quinn responded slowly.  
   
Ovech sighed. “No, I suppose not. You never could properly court a woman in writing. Well, what did you say in reply?”  
   
Quinn winced, the blush on his face now one of utter shame.  
   
“You haven’t written her,” Ovech breathed. “You’ve held onto this letter for two weeks and not breathed a word to her since.”  
   
Quinn drained the last of his brandy and considered ordering something stronger despite the early hour.  
   
“That is correct.” He hesitated, then added, “In truth, Xandir, I did not know what to say that would not border on the vulgar.”  
   
“What you have never understood, Mal, is that one prefers a streak of vulgarity in their love letters.”  
   
Quinn remained silent, studying his empty snifter.  
   
“And now you’re supposed to call on her. Today.”

“Quite.”  
   
Ovech handed the letter back to him. “Assuming you actually want this woman in your life, which, I think we could all be forgiven for questioning that conclusion, you _must_ go today. You must go and grovel. Beg her forgiveness. Spout poetry if you have to.”  
   
Quinn sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t have any poetry memorized,” he muttered sarcastically.  
   
Ovech lifted a dark eyebrow. “Then it would seem you’re left to your own reasoned choices in this, heaven help you.”  
   
Quinn flagged down an attendant and ordered a finger of whiskey.

 

* * *

  
   
The carriage clattered along the road, jostling its occupants fiercely. Duke Baras spared no expense in his modes of transportation, but all the coin in the world could not purchase a carriage that rode smoothly enough for sleeping or even to avoid losing one’s lunch. Vette stared out the curtained windows at the countryside as it slid past, idly stroking Jaesa’s hand with her thumb. Jaesa’s head was on Vette’s shoulder and the dark-haired woman dozed lightly, snapping awake every time the carriage wheels hit a particularly large rut in the road. Vette turned her head and dropped a kiss on her beloved’s head. It was so rare that they could express any affection to one another outside of a drawing room - or bedchamber - that even holding hands while fresh fall air wafted through the open carriage windows was a rare luxury.  
   
Jaesa’s presence made the stay in Kaas City every season worth it. As an unofficial ward of Duke Baras, Vette stayed in his townhome with her two friends, thus relieving her and Jaesa of the need to sneak across the duke’s substantial estate to catch any time alone together. It was a choice between enduring proximity to Baras for a chance to live in the same house as Jaesa for half the year, or divesting herself of all company during the fall and winter. It was a terrible bargain, but one Vette was willing to tolerate for a few months more, before Mara freed herself from Baras’s guardianship and took them all very far away from The Citadel.  
   
Duchess Thrask had generously offered asylum to her two friends after she reached her majority. Vette had accepted it, of course, and she loved Mara for offering it and for the sith woman’s efforts over the years to shield Vette and Jaesa from her uncle and from other prying eyes. That it was necessary - that Vette had been stripped of any resource that would see her independent, that she and the woman she loved were beholden to a noblewoman for protection from the censure of the outside world - was still galling.  
   
She hoped to change that. While Mara assumed their weekly sojourns into the woods was solely a chance for the duchess to correspond with her steward while Vette and Jaesa spent some rare time alone, Vette in fact had also been using the cave as a cache for letters between herself and a group of twi’lek dissidents who were looking to resist Baras’s proxy rule of Ryloth. Planning had been slow – neither Vette nor Taunt, the leader of the group, wanted to spend twi’lek lives in vain. But Vette was certain Mara would throw her support behind them when she retook her holdings. An independent Ryloth allied with the largest duchy in Horuset would be a formidable opponent, even for Duke Baras.  
   
Vette stared across the carriage at the red-skinned woman who sat opposite them, ensconced in a stunning deep blue cloak. The fingers of both gloved hands were laced together tightly and she stared out the window, her brow furrowed. Mara had been like this – quiet, withdrawn, often frowning into the middle distance – since Lord Quinn’s last letter arrived.  
   
_My Dear Lady Thrask,  
   
I know it has been less than a week since my first letter, but I find myself putting pen to paper once more to unburden my thoughts to you.  
   
My work does not go well. An adjutant senior to myself, General Broysc, has put forth a plan to take the city of Corellia. You will no doubt remember that this city is deep behind enemy lines. Broysc insists such an audacious move, if successful, will be a boon to our force’s morale and a statement of our supremacy in the region. However, every analysis I have made indicates the move would be costly to us in both blood and treasure, and would leave an occupying force surrounded on three sides by the enemy with only one, easily-severed supply line into or out of the city. It is indeed the audacious, statement-making move Broysc claims it to be; but I do not think it carries the message he would intend. I am not the only adjutant to think so, but every shred of evidence against the plan seems to make the general cling more strongly to his conviction on the subject.  
   
I do not know how many of the council members will find his fervor more eloquent than fact, but I am concerned. Worse, Broysc has taken to threatening any who oppose him with ruin, and fellows who previously agreed with me have begun shifting their conclusions out of fear.  
   
I suppose this is not the letter you would expect from me, but it calms me somewhat to think of you reading my words in that you may have some wisdom or comfort to offer, for I have found little other than anxiety in the recesses of my own mind.  
   
I do hope your next letter will carry some intelligence on your likely arrival date in town. I have missed our talks.  
   
Yours,  
Malavai Quinn_  
   
Vette had to admit, upon reading the letter, that the odd horse flirting had been far more endearing. He seemed to value the duchess’s opinion regarding the political conflict he faced, but surely that could be said of many others with whom Quinn had not formed the kind of affectionate rapport Mara thought they had.  
   
She tried to rally her spirits, sparring with Vette and Jaesa in the greenhouse, throwing herself into her work managing Pesegam from a distance. She joined in the complaints about the imminent move to town and laughed at Vette’s impressions of Kaasian lords and their too-smooth manners and condescending stares. Their discussions about the season in town had been thus for as long as the three ladies had been out in society.

But the duchess’s heart was not in it, Vette could tell, in the moments she fell silent and frowned at some intruding thought or other. Despite her palpable frustration, Mara kept both of Quinn’s letters tucked away with the few jewels she’d brought from Horuset, the stilted correspondence apparently holding nearly as much weight in the duchess’s heart as her mother’s coronet. Indeed, instead of grousing when the order came to make preparations for the move to town, Mara set about her tasks like a woman on a mission, fully animated for the first time in over a week.  
   
Vette had never seen her friend in such a state. The beautiful, blushing, easily-provoked Earl of Balmorra had wormed his way past Lady Thrask’s defenses and left his mark. Mara was not an innocent, any more than Vette was. The duchess had flirted with plenty of men, bedding those who struck her fancy and were too low-born to pose a danger to her, but Vette had always gotten the impression it was a game for her friend; a way of passing the time, and her own small rebellion against the Kaasian propriety Duke Baras spent fourteen years trying to drill into her.  
   
But with Quinn, Mara had formed an actual attachment. Vette knew those far-off looks, the distraction, the act of vesting one person with so much power over your moods. She shared all of that with the woman whose head was on her shoulder.  
   
“Do you think Lord Ghost will call on you today?” Vette asked, breaking the silence.  
   
“I don’t know,” Mara replied, still staring out the window. “I extended the invitation of course, but after that last letter I do not even know if he-”  
   
Mara caught herself and turned toward Vette and Jaesa, a sheepish look on her face. Vette laughed, slipping her arm around Jaesa’s waist as the woman dozed off again.  
   
“I’ve never seen you this nervous about a man, Mara. You’re positively insecure.”  
   
“It is an unfamiliar feeling,” she admitted.  
   
“You’ll be fine. It’s entirely possible after his first failed attempt he simply did not trust himself to flirt with you in print. And if he is indeed so stupid as to forget his attachment to you the minute he’s out of your sight, he does not deserve you.”  
   
Mara smiled, but there was a tightness in her eyes that told Vette she didn’t find the sentiment entirely reassuring. When she spoke again, it was to change the subject entirely.  
   
“I’m sorry, Vette. I have been beastly company these past weeks. Have you decided whether you’ll be attending Lady Vengean’s ball next week?”  
   
Vette made a face. “I most certainly am not. Pierce wrote and said he’s found a public house he believes Jaesa and I will enjoy. He plans to escort us that evening. I’m afraid you’ll have to charm the Dark Council and their wives by yourself.”  
   
“You will have to give me the name of the public house in question so I know where I may escape to.”  
   
Vette laughed. “I’ll do that.”  
   
She meant it, and she was sure Mara meant her words, too; she always had an escape route ready should a party become tediously dull. But as Mara turned back toward the window, Vette was certain her mind was filled with the hope of spending the evening on the arm of a certain dark-haired earl.  
   
For all her worldliness, Duchess Maranel Thrask had never been in love before. Vette only hoped the woman kept her head enough to keep them all safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A gambling hell is another term for a Regency gentlemen's club (e.g., White's, Boodle's). I used the term "gambling hell" because it, at the very least, does not invoke an image of exotic dancers. These places were strictly dudes only, a place for gambling and political maneuvering (White's was frequented by Tories; Boodle's by Whigs), and not so much for arranging female companionship of any kind, even the paid kind. Club applicants received an up or down vote from existing members, and thus were elected to membership.


	10. Reconnection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Thrask arrives in Kaas City and immediately sets to work developing political allies. She and Lord Quinn discuss their different upbringings and come to an understanding. Sidesaddles are cursed.

“Lord Malavai Quinn for you, your grace,” Lucas intoned.

Quinn nodded his thanks to Lucas and entered the room, anxiety clenching in his belly. He was gratified that, despite the awkwardness of their correspondence, his presence seemed to be welcome. When he arrived and gave Lucas his card the butler admitted him with the alacrity that only came from special instruction. He was shown to a large, bright morning room at the back of the house’s ground floor.

Lady Thrask sat on the far side of the morning room in a long-sleeved dress of the lightest peach that brought to mind Alderaanian blush wine. She was seated at a small table with the house cook, apparently discussing meal plans for the coming week. The warmth of her attire contrasted sharply with the frosty glance she gave him before turning back to the cook.

“Forgive me, Mrs. Halidrell, but I would appear to have other business to attend to. We can discuss the menu for Lord Vengean’s visit later this evening.”

Mrs. Halidrell stood and nodded.

“And do let me know if any of the fruit we requested is not available at market.”

“I will, your grace, thank you.”

Lady Thrask shot another look in Quinn’s direction. Mrs. Halidrell was halfway into a curtsey when the duchess spoke again.

“How is Sharack settling in running The Citadel’s kitchens in your absence?”

The other woman straightened quickly, her eyes darting to Quinn and back to her mistress. “As well as can be expected, your grace.”

Lady Thrask chuckled. “I hope your expectations are high, since you trained her yourself. I believe she will do well.”

The cook made a face, then seemed to remember they had an audience and quickly smoothed her features back to a neutral expression. “As you say, your grace. If you’ll excuse me, I must see to the preparations you have requested.”

“Of course.”

The cook curtseyed low, her posture taking in both Quinn and her mistress, and left the room. Quinn hurried forward, expecting Lady Thrask to stand and greet him. His steps faltered as she stayed firmly in her chair, back straight, chin raised, her face carved from stone, watching him approach like a queen receiving a troublesome vassal.

“Good afternoon, Lord Quinn.” Her voice was smooth as glass.

“Lady Thrask.” He bowed low. “I was… I am honored by your invitation.”

She inclined her head but said nothing. Quinn remained standing, the silence growing uncomfortable.

“Forgive me, your grace, but may I sit? There are things I must say to you.”

She cocked her head, intense amber eyes studying him.

“I’d rather prefer that you stood; I would not want to inconvenience your busy schedule.”

He winced and firmly pushed down the annoyance that flared at her words.

“Please,” he said softly. “I understand that I erred. I am in no hurry to leave.”

The stony mask softened ever so slightly.

“I am not without mercy, my lord.” She smiled; it was not quite friendly, but her eyes sparkled with just enough of her usual mischief that Quinn’s heart still skipped a beat. “You may kneel, if it is more comfortable for you.”

He felt his mouth fall open slightly. The gall, to suggest such a thing. And yet… Ovech’s words flashed through his mind.  _ You must go and grovel. _ That, and the challenge in her eyes as she met his gaze, made his decision.

“You have my thanks, your grace,” he said, closing the remaining distance between them and dropping to one knee before her.

The gesture was completely worth the look of shock that flashed across her face before she could stop it. The serene mask snapped quickly back into place and she looked at him expectantly.

“You had something to say to me, Lord Quinn?”

“I do indeed, Lady Thrask.” He met her gaze, trying not to think about how much he’d missed looking into her sunset-colored eyes, trying to ignore the warmth of her knee pressed against his. “I am sorry for the poor impression my correspondence gave you. I… I am not practiced at expressing my feelings in writing.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “One would think a man of your worldliness would have ample opportunity to practice such things, my lord.”

He sighed. “Perhaps it is not a lack of practice, precisely. I have never been given to flights of fancy, your grace. I am too studied in my style to feel comfortable creating the effusive prose other fellows send without a thought. You must understand, it is far easier for me to forget propriety in your presence, than it is for me to ignore it when I read what I have written.”

“My lord, I will speak plainly: if you require my physical presence in order to feel whatever affection you may have for me, I do not believe this will work. I am not interested in someone whose feelings are so changeable.”

“My feelings have not changed,” he said fervently. He reached for her hand without thinking and gripped it tightly. “Lady Thrask, I have pined for you almost constantly since I left your presence. I merely-”

He cut off, the words that tumbled out of his mouth finally running through his mind. His cheeks warmed.

“Forgive me, your grace; that was crass.”

To his astonishment her face lit up in a genuine smile and she shook her head.

“My dear Lord Quinn,” she murmured. “I forgive your stilted correspondence, but I do not forgive you for expressing what I have longed to hear this past month at least.”

She stared down at him, her eyes once again warm. “I have missed you.”

Her smile took on that mischievous glint he had come to adore. “I cannot believe you actually knelt for me; I thought for sure you would insist on standing.”

He should have been offended at the admission that she’d all but dared him to kneel for her own amusement. Instead, he found himself entranced by her teasing smile. Oh, how he’d missed her. He found himself grinning rather foolishly in return.

She leaned in as if to kiss him, but jumped when, from the hallway, Mrs. Spratt said loudly, “Mr. Lucas, I need your help downstairs.”

Lady Thrask looked over Quinn’s shoulder and grimaced.

“Lord Quinn, we have a small but rather pleasant garden. Would you care to see it?”

He inclined his head. “I would be delighted, your grace.”

She pulled him to his feet and led him through a set of double doors that opened from the morning room to an open-aired atrium. It was small by most garden standards - a pittance compared with the greenhouse at The Citadel, for example - but was excellently designed to make the space feel larger, and its position, surrounded by the buildings that made up Baras’s property, meant it was far quieter than the streets outside. Only a few steps down the stone path and Quinn could easily believe he was back in the country instead of at the bustling heart of the Kaasian capital.

Lady Thrask took his arm and tugged him toward a bench situated under a large tree. The tree blocked them from the view of most of the house windows and would require any eavesdroppers to attempt sneaking through the foliage. Nosy as he was, Quinn doubted Mr. Lucas would deign to muddy his shoes just to catch their conversation.

“I have not greeted you properly, my lord,” she said when they were safely sheltered by the tree’s canopy. She offered her hand.

He took it in both of his and raised it to his lips, inhaling the scent of her skin - a hint of clove and Kaasian pine - as he did so, regretting the long sleeves of her dress prevented him from running one hand up the bare skin of her arm. Her skin beneath his lips was as soft as he remembered, leaving him guessing as to how the rest of her bare body would feel against his mouth and fingers.

“Welcome to Kaas City, your grace,” he said softly.

She laughed, a touch breathless, and Quinn felt his own pulse quicken.

“You are quite the welcoming committee, Lord Quinn. I hope you do not greet all young ladies arriving from the country thus.”

“Only you,” he responded, looking into her amber eyes.

She motioned toward the bench and they both sat.

“I’m glad you called on me. I was,” she paused. “I was rather distracted, trying to understand why you would treat me so coldly.”

He grimaced. “That was not my intention, your grace. I do not ask for advice from many people; I had hoped to pay you a compliment by doing so regarding Broysc.”

“I do appreciate that, though I hope you are here to make up for your oversight.”

“I’m sorry?”

She smiled. “Lord Quinn, surely you have not come here unprepared to shower me with all of the pretty endearments you so rudely denied me in your correspondence.”

Again his mouth hung open. “I… that is…”

“Nothing?” Her eyes widened with affront that was surely feigned. “If you have pined for me so, my lord, surely you have spent hours meditating on my fine eyes, or my quick wit, or,” her eyebrows twitched upward, “my womanly figure.”

Quinn could not stop his mind from conjuring the images that had haunted his nights over the weeks: her red skin against his white sheets, her low voice pitched higher with pleasure, her nails eviscerating the skin of his back. A blush burned hot on his cheeks.

He jumped when her hand found his. Her lips were curved in a tiny, lascivious smile and something about the glow in her golden eyes left him with the distinct impression she had mentally removed every stitch of clothing from his body.

“I should pay dearly to hear those thoughts,” she purred. He swallowed noisily. “But I will not demand it of you; for now it is enough to know they exist.”

“I thank you for that, Lady Thrask,” he said hoarsely. “Please understand, I… I am accustomed to showing ladies a certain amount of deference, no matter how enchanting they are.”

She studied him. “You were right,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You are not like any Kaasian lord I have ever met. Most use Kaasian propriety to mask or excuse their bad behavior, or to denounce others.” Her eyes searched his. “But you take it to heart, don’t you? You truly believe that in moderating your passions in my presence, you are demonstrating your respect.”

He nodded. “I cannot speak for others, but that is my motivation, yes.”

Lady Thrask looked down at their entwined hands. “You must know that, for sith, it is the exact opposite. To hide your feelings from another is to demonstrate a deep distrust.”

“That is why my formality hurt you,” he said, nodding his understanding.

“Indeed.” She looked up at him and smiled weakly. “We must find some third way forward, my lord.”

“We must,” he agreed. “I cannot help but wonder if prolonged acquaintance will narrow the difference between us in that vein.”

She smiled. “If we are candid with one another, I suspect it will. For now,” her voice became teasing, “you shall have to communicate your feelings to me in person so that I may write your letters for you.”

“I think you will find I improve with practice, your grace,” he said with a smile of his own.

They spent the next half hour on their bench chatting amiably. By the time Quinn stood to take his leave, he had secured Lady Thrask’s consent to meeting his sister when she arrived in town later in the season, and they planned for a ride in King’s Park the following morning.

“Thank you for calling, Lord Quinn. I look forward to tomorrow,” she said, offering her hand.

He took it, then on impulse leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on her lips instead.

“Until tomorrow,” he murmured.

He gave her what he hoped was his most rakish smile and made his way back into the main house.

***

The following morning Mara sat atop Fury trying not to wobble in her sidesaddle. Both she and the beast had to readjust to the ungainly monstrosity that was inflicted upon proper Kaasian ladies. If Fury moved above a trot Mara would either slide off the back of the horse or risk capsizing the saddle completely, such was the uneven weight distribution inherent in riding aside. Mara reminded herself firmly that she would not have been able to gallop in King’s Park even had she been properly accoutred; the park was far too small and crowded to move safely at such a pace.

Instead she and Quinn moved deeper into the park at a trot. As she bounced along, Mara felt the eyes of Kaas City’s elite on her, crawling over her flesh like insects, noting this first in recent Kaas City history: the Duchess Thrask appearing content with the company of a Kaasian lord. Speculation of a potential union between Balmorra and Pesegam would circulate through Kaas City by evening. It was not the first time Mara had been the subject of gossip, and indeed such rumors would help her politically, but Mara had not expected the attention to set her so on edge. It had been different in the country, riding alone, without the polite masks demanded by Kaasian society.

They slowed to a walk when they put enough distance between themselves and the bulk of the nobles taking a morning sojourn in the park. She looked to her left to see Quinn staring at her, an amused smile on his face.

“I never thought it would be odd to see a woman riding aside,” he said. “I hope you will not mind my saying, it doesn’t suit you.”

“I should hope not,” Mara replied tartly, raising an eyebrow at him. “Though I cannot help but wonder, Lord Quinn, if you simply miss seeing me in breeches.”

He flushed, his blue eyes widening.

“Your grace, I would not…” he trailed off, then seemed to summon his courage. “I cannot lie and say I did not enjoy seeing you thus, but that is not the only reason riding aside does not suit you. It constrains your natural talents as a horsewoman.”

Mara smiled broadly. “Why thank you, my lord. I do believe that is one of the best compliments one of your cohort has paid me.” The smile turned to a grimace. “It softens the knowledge that you shall have to help me into my saddle if Fury decides she’s had enough of this nonsense and bolts.”

“A groom helped me into mine this morning, your grace,” Quinn said dryly.

“Yes, but it was not  _ required _ ,” she insisted. “In this contraption I cannot leave my own home without help. Still, I suppose I shall have to become accustomed to it if we are to let these two beasts see one another before the snow arrives.”

Quinn laughed softly.

“I know it has only been a day, but I hope I shall live that down eventually.”

Mara shook her head.

“Absolutely not. In truth, I now find it rather endearing, knowing how it must have pressed you past your comfort to write even that.”

They rode in silence for a moment before Quinn spoke again.

“I took your advice regarding Broysc. I spoke with Lord Marr yesterday after I left you.”

From his somber tone, it did not sound like it had gone well. When she said as much, Quinn shook his head.

“You misunderstand. Lord Marr heard and even shares many of my concerns. But he knows the Council is dissatisfied with the lack of progress in the war and is so primed for a plan such as Broysc’s. He encouraged me to submit my reports as honestly as possible - indeed, he implored me to do so to bolster his own arguments against - but I am to avoid antagonizing Broysc by trying to sway others to my side.”

Mara frowned. “I understand he would not want you to make political enemies, but such a stance is not tenable.”

“It is not, but I see his dilemma. Any action on my part against Broysc could set the other councilors against him simply on principle. More to the point, Lord Marr may lead the Council but he does not dictate the opinions of his fellows. If they vote against reason, he cannot overturn their will.”

“The Council will discover their error quickly,” Mara said, thinking of Pierce, whose deployment in Kaas City would end after the winter, forcing his unit to return to the front, “but the men who die taking and holding a worthless city will not benefit from that lesson.”

Quinn grimaced. “Indeed not. Lord Marr knows that, your grace. Believe me when I say he is working to convince the others of the folly of this plan.”

Mara looked at him and put a hand on his arm. As she did so, she realized a group of riders - two ladies and a groom - had stopped not far away and were watching them with open interest. Quinn followed her gaze and froze, then determinedly placed his hand over hers and looked back at her.

“I did not realize we would invite so much scrutiny,” he said softly, squeezing her hand lightly.

“I thought we might; we have been riding for nearly an hour and I have not yet loudly insulted you. I believe that may be a record for me when interacting with a Kaasian noble.” She looked down at her hand, sheltered under his. “Still, I did not expect to find it so unnerving.”

“I’m sorry, should I have pulled away?” He asked earnestly, moving his hand from hers.

“No, please,” she said hurriedly, grabbing for his hand before he could pull it away completely.

The motion tilted her body precariously over her already unbalanced saddle, and she pitched sideways with a less-than-graceful yelp. Quinn caught her, one hand just above her waist, his thumb tucked under her left breast, the other catching her far shoulder. Mara braced herself instinctively against his shoulders, her riding crop still in her right hand and missing his face by a hair’s breadth. Quinn’s own crop dangled from his wrist, brushing Mara’s leg through her dress. Fury huffed in protest, but fortunately remained still.

“Blast this thing.” She looked up at him, his face so close she could see little else. “I take it our audience has become even more interested.”

Quinn’s blue eyes shifted away from her briefly. “Indeed.”

“I refuse to fall off this horse in front of onlookers, Lord Quinn.”

“Then I suppose I should help you back into your seat,” he replied, raising an eyebrow, “no matter how distasteful my help is to you.”

“Or you could help me down so I can cut this ridiculous monstrosity off of my horse and leave it here.”

“Yes, I’m sure that would excite far less gossip, Lady Thrask,” he said flatly.

Mara sighed. “Fine, help me.”

He smiled and leaned out of his saddle.

“I can lift you back into place, but you must have the horn gripped firmly between your...” he trailed off, his face turning a deep red.

Mara raised an eyebrow and did as she was told, squeezing the saddle horn between her thighs so she and it moved together.

“As you wish, my lord,” she said teasingly.

He opened his mouth to reply but seemed to think better of it. Instead he shifted his hands to her waist and lifted her slightly, then pushed her backward the fractional distance it took for the saddle to become balanced again on Fury’s back.

The mare looked back at them with longsuffering patience.

“I think we’ve given society quite enough of a show for one day,” Mara said as she settled herself and arranged her skirts. She fixed Quinn with an earnest stare. “Thank you, Lord Quinn. I… I was going to say, despite how unsettling I find the scrutiny, I am gratified I am not alone in it.”

“It is my privilege, your grace,” he said. “Come, I shall escort you home.”

***

A fortnight later Quinn strode through the Council building, a thick report cradled in one arm, on his way to meet with Lord Marr. As he topped the steps that led to the councilor’s offices, he looked up just in time to see a familiar figure enter the hallway and close the door behind her. Her red skin contrasted sharply with the deep grey of her gown.

“Lady Thrask!” It was part greeting, part question.

She started and looked up, her amber eyes widening when she saw him.

“Lord Quinn, I did not expect to see you here,” she said, hurrying toward him and fussing with her gloves.

He raised an eyebrow. “I work here, your grace.”

He left the question unstated but looked at her expectantly.

“Oh, I… Lord Vowrawn sent a note asking if we could meet in person. Our estates border one another, you know, and we are the only two noble Horusetians in Kaas City.”

He frowned. All of that was true, but the idea of a lady meeting a Council member in his offices during the day was more than slightly suspicious.

“Will you be attending Lady Vengean’s ball next week?” she asked before he could probe further.

He paused, surprised at the shift in topic.

“Yes.” He smiled. “Lord Vengean tends to take it personally when the Council’s noble-born staff do not attend his wife’s social functions.”

“My uncle and I will be attending as well. I hope you and I will be able to spend some time together.”

Her eyes were warm. He resisted the urge to reach out to her, but only just.

“Indeed. It would be my pleasure,  your grace.”

She smiled and dropped a small curtsy before hurrying away. Quinn only realized later that she had skillfully avoided answering any questions about her activities.

***

Quinn’s uneasiness about Mara’s connection to Vowrawn was not eased when, at Lady Vengean’s ball, the Council member appeared before them with a deferential bow.

“Lady Thrask, you look enchanting as ever,” he said smoothly.

He was not wrong. The gold silk of Lady Thrask’s dress shimmered against her red skin. The neckline was as close to scandalous as she could get without crossing the line; it was slightly more open than was typical, the center coming to a point between her breasts that matched the arrow shape of the ridges that ran down her sternum. She wore those ridges proudly; rather than clutter her décolletage with jewels, she had left her neck bare. She made up for that lack with a pair of opulent earrings, a cascade of diamonds, sapphires, and topaz that complemented her dress perfectly. A string of topaz was woven through the complicated knot of her hair.

Lady Thrask smiled at Vowrawn and curtseyed politely.

“My dear Lord Quinn, I must borrow this lovely creature for a moment. I hope you will not mind; I shall bring her back to you shortly.”

Before Quinn could venture an opinion on the subject, Vowrawn whisked Lady Thrask away, taking her to Lords Vengean and Marr, presumably for an introduction. Mara curtseyed and offered a hand to each Councilor in turn. Quinn watched the interaction curiously. Vengean’s posture remained stiff and formal throughout, but Marr studied the duchess thoughtfully before falling into conversation with her, his lips twitching upward slightly at some joke or other - for Marr, that was near a raucous laugh. After a few minutes, true to his word, Vowrawn walked the duchess back to Quinn.

“Lady Thrask is quite the conversationalist, Quinn. I do believe the two of you will go far together.”

Quinn sputtered at the forwardness of the statement. Lady Thrask blushed - Quinn was becoming familiar enough with her to recognize when her skin darkened - but slipped her hand into the crook of Quinn’s arm.

“My lord, I don’t,” Quinn began.

“Please, my dear fellow, your attachment is obvious. You even match,” Vowrawn said, gesturing to Quinn’s waistcoat, black overlain with a gold brocade. “I will say I heartily approve.”

He smiled broadly and walked away.

“Did you know he would do that?” Quinn asked Lady Thrask, suspicion in his voice.

“I did not,” she replied, her voice slightly choked. “I would have stopped him had I known. Still,” she looked at his waistcoat and smiled mischievously, “we may want to consult about color choices in future, so we avoid this predicament.”

He smiled down at her and covered her hand with his. It occurred to him in that moment the coordination of their attire was probably the least obvious thing about their behavior that suggested attachment.

The rest of the evening passed quickly with dancing and conversation. Duke Baras left early. As he left, Quinn stopped the duke to offer himself as escort for Lady Thrask’s ride home. The duke, with a curious reluctance and an unreadable glance at his niece, agreed. Several hours later, a groom in Vengean livery handed them both into Quinn’s carriage after he’d issued instructions to his driver. The night was chilly - frost dusted the ground and glittered in the lantern light - and the curtains of the carriage were drawn tightly to keep out the cold.

It was the first time they had been truly alone in weeks, since his stay at The Citadel.

They both became aware of that fact at the same time. Lady Thrask’s eyes, glowing in the darkness of the carriage, met his and she favored him with a small smile. Quinn extended a hand that she accepted, and he pulled her across the carriage to sit next to him.

“Is Vowrawn planning to introduce you to the full Council?” He asked as she settled next to him, her thigh pressed against his.

She nodded. “Socially, at least. You must agree that, as the second-highest ranking Horusetian in Kaas City, it makes a certain amount of sense for me to be acquainted with them.”

Quinn turned that over in his mind for a few moments. She was not wrong, and yet.

“I should think your uncle would be the more appropriate person to make those introductions,” he said carefully.

Lady Thrask turned her intense golden eyes up to his.

“Of course he would. But he has been remiss in that duty, so I must make my own way, propriety or no.”

“Lady Thrask, I,” he began.

“Mara,” she interrupted.

“I’m sorry?”

“Use my given name, please,” she said.

“Mara,” he whispered, smiling around the word. “I do not mean to criticize you. I only wish you to know that, from the outside, your activities do appear odd and may draw unwanted scrutiny.”

“What have I told you about defending my honor without my consent, Lord Quinn?” She asked, her warm smile taking any sting out of her words.

“If I am to use your given name, you must use mine,” he responded, stroking her cheek with one hand. “And I am not defending your honor; I am giving you a Kaasian perspective that I hope will be useful to you.”

Mara pressed her face into his palm. Her hand on his waistcoat pulled him the rest of the way toward her and her lips found his. The kiss began chastely, but she was insistent, her tongue claiming his mouth as his arms went around her. She melted against him, one hand threading through the hair on the back of his head as the other gripped his arm tightly. After a blissful eternity she pulled away, her teeth raking his lower lip as they parted. Quinn fought to steady his breathing. She stared into his eyes.

“Thank you, Malavai.”

His name left her lips as a low, silken whisper, somehow even more exquisite than the kiss they’d just shared. He pressed his forehead to hers. 

“I live to serve, my dearest.”

She laughed and pulled her knees up until her legs were draped over his. He settled back into the cushions, her head leaning against his shoulder, her hair tickling his jaw. With Mara filling his arms, the ache he’d felt for so long in her absence finally eased, replaced by a profound contentment. He kissed the top of her head, his mind wandering back to the ball.

“What did you say to Lord Marr that made him smile so?” He asked.

It took her a moment to respond, as if she were surprised by the change in topic.

“That was a smile?” She countered.

“For Marr, yes.”

She chuckled quietly and looked up at him.

“I mentioned something about Vowrawn being the very best embodiment of Horusetian stubborn persistence and wit. Apparently that is something Marr has personal experience with.”

Quinn laughed and squeezed her tighter for a moment. “You could say that, yes. Lord Vowrawn is… not a man to be gainsaid,” he said diplomatically.

“Lord Marr does indeed seem rather longsuffering,” Mara agreed. “And yet they are a formidable team when they agree on an issue. Something to keep in mind.”

He glanced down at the top of her head, the gems threaded through her dark hair glinting in the limited light of the carriage, unsure how to respond. Despite that, the silence that stretched between them was companionable rather than awkward.

All too soon, the carriage slowed, signaling they were near their destination. He began to disentangle himself from Mara’s embrace. She made a small sound of protest.

“We should not be found like this,” he explained.

“Why ever not? We could simply tell your footman that you became cold.”

Her voice and face were perfectly serious as she said it, melting into laughter only when he scowled, partly at the thought of admitting such weakness to his servants, and partly because, with her body separated from his, the cold did indeed bite harder than it had before.

She leaned in and kissed him one last time before shifting to sit opposite him. The carriage stopped and a footman opened the door.

“Lord Quinn, I have enjoyed your company. You should escort me home more often,” she said, her eyes still dancing merrily.

“I shall endeavor to do so, your grace,” he responded, kissing her offered hand.

The footman handed her down from the carriage. Quinn might have continued staring as she walked away, her gold-clad form shimmering in the lantern light, had his footman not closed the carriage door in his face. Quinn sighed and sat back as the carriage took him home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riding Aside: I do want to note that Mara's view of riding aside is slightly unfair. It was possible for extremely accomplished horsewomen to ride aside at a gallop without toppling over; Catherine de Medici was one such woman, and her customized sidesaddles became the standard all over Europe up through the Regency era. That having been said, everything I read indicated that Regency-era sidesaddles were in fact rather dangerous for anything above a trot because it was so easy to fall off them, and it was indeed impossible for a lady to get into a sidesaddle without either a hand up from a groom or riding partner or a mounting block. (At least half the reason ladies always took an escort during their rides was to make sure they could get back on the horse if they were thrown.) Mara, being the stubborn lady she is, has refined her riding skills in a regular saddle and so never developed much skill in riding aside; whether she'd have any talent for it at all is left as an exercise to the reader. Fury has been trained with both saddles, which is perhaps the only reason she doesn't bolt after Mara's mishap.
> 
> Vowrawn and Marr: My understanding of the Dark Council and its two most prominent personalities has been very heavily informed by erunamiryene's Chaos and Opportunity (http://archiveofourown.org/works/3265439/chapters/7121186). Her work is brilliant, you should absolutely read it. After doing so there was no way her characterization of Marr and Vowrawn wouldn't bleed into my own work, so she deserves credit.


	11. Alliances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dark Council meets to plan Dromund Kaas's occupation of Corellia. Lady Thrask meets Lord Quinn's younger sister, Georgiana. Quinn and Mara come to a business arrangement. The end of this chapter is NSFW.

Mara smiled apologetically and squeezed Mrs. Spratt’s shoulder, gently ushering the housekeeper from the room. Just as Mara was about to shut the door, Mrs. Spratt shook herself and pressed a small scrap of paper into her hand.

“Lord Vowrawn asked me to pass you his compliments, your grace,” she said.

Mara looked down at the paper in her hand, her heart beating a bit faster, and looked back up at the housekeeper and nodded. The woman left.

Mara, Vette, and Jaesa were in the parlor that adjoined the formal dining room. Beyond the double doors that linked the two rooms, the table was set for twenty guests and the first course had been ready to serve - kept fitfully warm in the butler’s pantry - for nearly an hour now. Mrs. Spratt was nearly beside herself at the shame of serving lukewarm soup to the Dark Council.

Of course, had the Dark Council deigned to adjourn their informal meeting on time, the soup, and the courses that came after, would have been served at its peak. But Duke Baras had sent Mrs. Spratt away several times now, threatening her employment before sending her out of his study this last time. Mara did her best to comfort the poor woman and promised to reason with her uncle.

All twelve members of the council along with four aides, including Malavai, had been shut up in Baras’s study for four hours now, arguing about plans for the war. The meeting was informal - nothing official could take place outside of Council chambers - but Vengean and Ravage had somehow convinced their fellows that Duke Baras’s input in the matter would be valuable, and that a less formal setting would allow the members to speak freely about their concerns. Over the hours aides had scurried about, requesting refreshments from the servants or summoning their horses, generally keeping the entire household in a state of constant tension that was only exacerbated when raised voices could be heard coming from the study.

With Mrs. Spratt ready to take to her bed over the Council's thoughtlessness, that tension threatened to boil over into full blown panic.

The scrap of paper in Mara’s hand was a signal that was about to change. For better or worse, she could not say yet. She had met with Vowrawn on several occasions after this meeting was decided upon, most recently at the Gardiner’s ball the previous week. The note in her hand - a simple “the Council thanks Duchess Thrask for her hospitality” - was the signal she had waited all evening for.

“Jaesa, can you go into the dining room and soothe the staff, please? Tell them the Council will be adjourning to dinner very soon.”

Jaesa stood to do as asked, but cocked her head. “How do you know?”

Mara looked again at the paper in her hand. “Trust me.”

She wore an ink-blue gown and dark gloves. The skirt of her gown was open in the front, the two edges of the fabric overlapping enough so that she retained her modesty during normal, ladylike activities, but the split allowed her freedom of movement and quick access to the knife strapped to her thigh. Resisting the urge to take a deep breath, she moved toward the study.

She opened the door quietly and slipped in without fanfare, keeping her posture and manner deferential as a servant’s. The Council was deep in animated discussion, the aides involved in taking notes furiously. Malavai was on the far side of the room between Vengean and Vowrawn, his dark head bent over a stack of papers as he spoke quietly to Vengean.

No one looked up as she entered. After hours of arguing, they were tired and hungry and accustomed to the sounds of servants moving about, refreshing candles and drink trays. She melted back into the relative darkness of the far corner of the room and waited.

“If you insist upon spending coin and soldiers to take Corellia,” Vowrawn was saying, his voice affable and sarcastic at the same time, “You will need a better strategy than this. Taking the city head on without softening the enemy first will prove even more wasteful than necessary.”

“Artillery will soften the enemy, Vowrawn,” Marr replied, his tone indicating they had gone over this argument already.

“Not enough,” Vowrawn shot back. “They will see the army marching from hours away and will expect an artillery strike. You’ll kill some of their foot soldiers and, if you’re lucky, take out some cannons with them. Of course, then you will have to dig your own earthworks and artillery placements to replace those you’ve destroyed. No, we will be at a disadvantage here. We must act cautiously; you need to cut off the head of the Republic forces before any all-out assault on the city.”

“And how do you propose we do that? We don’t have any deserters or prisoners we can use against the enemy and any of our soldiers will be identified as Kaasian the moment they open their mouths,” Thanaton said irritably.

Vowrawn smiled pleasantly. “You don’t need soldiers, my dear fellow. You need assassins: operatives who can sneak into the city unseen and slit the throats of their generals and governor before the enemy even knows they’ve been compromised. Assassins who can wreak chaos and keep the enemy’s focus inward while we approach.”

The table fell silent, all eyes glued to Vowrawn. Sith assassins had been legendary during the King’s War; indeed, they had been potent enough to balance the Kaasian military’s advantage in numbers for years before the then-Dark Council decided to prey upon the families of assassins as a means of neutralizing them. For however brutal the sith were, the family unit formed the core of their society. It had taken years to identify and muzzle enough assassins for Dromund Kaas to gain an upper hand, but it had worked.

“That is a tactic that smacks of sith duplicity, Lord Vowrawn,” Baras said softly.

Mara nearly snorted at the hypocrisy of the statement, but managed to keep her silence.

“It is too cowardly an idea to even dignify with a response,” Vengean agreed.

“I thought the assassins were extinct,” Marr said. His tone was thoughtful and he leaned forward in his chair. He sat on the side of the table closest to Mara, his back to her, a little separated from his fellows.

Mara smiled to herself, patting the knife on her thigh to reassure herself it was there. Vowrawn was right; Marr was the most likely to be receptive to the idea. But then, Marr was the senior member of the Council and was also most directly responsible for the day-to-day operations of the military. Pragmatism and the wisdom to seize opportunities when they presented themselves - to say nothing of a genuine concern for the wellbeing of the military as a whole - had kept him in his position longer than anyone in history.

“We never said they were extinct,” Vowrawn replied with a shrug. “Such training is fairly standard for most young sith, especially those who are nobly born.”

Mara crouched and began moving forward, keeping her feet silent on the plush rug of the study. Fortunately, years of staying in this house had taught her the location of every loose board in the floor.

“Are they really skilled enough to do as you suggest?”

Vowrawn chuckled, ensuring all eyes were fixed on him. Mara allowed herself a tight smile.

“My dear man,” Vowrawn said, his chuckle turning into laughter.

With a burst of speed, Mara grabbed the back legs of Marr’s chair with all her strength, yanking it upward, dumping the man forward with enough force to crack his head against the surface of the table. As his head made contact she flung the chair aside.

Marr was quick, impressively quick for a Kaasian lord, and flexed his knees to keep from collapsing to the floor. Of course, that was precisely what Mara had hoped he’d do. In that split second he was crouched with the edge of the table at chest level, his palms pressed against the tabletop to push himself back to standing. Mara swept her skirt aside and drew her knife as she threw herself forward, pinning his chest against the edge of the table. The two council members closest to Marr jumped in surprise, one knocking a stack of papers to the floor.

Marr grunted when she slammed into him and squirmed against her but she set her feet firmly, leaning into him with all her weight. Her legs squeezed his torso tightly, thighs pressed against the backs of his shoulders. Given enough time, she was certain he would wrench himself out of her hold, but she had no intention of giving him that opportunity. She grabbed a handful of his dark hair and yanked his head back so hard he groaned. He froze when he felt her blade caress the taut skin of his throat.

“Good evening, my lords,” she said conversationally.

The entire thing had taken seconds. By the time she spoke, Baras had only time to rise halfway out of his chair, his face nearly purple with rage.

The only sound in the room for several seconds was Vowrawn’s laughter.

“Maranel! What the bleeding hell do you think you are doing?”

Mara ignored her uncle, instead concentrating on keeping Marr immobilized - both to drive Vowrawn’s argument home as well as to avoid slitting the man’s throat by accident - and studying each council member in turn. Her eyes lingered for a heartbeat on Malavai. His blue eyes were the size of tea saucers and he looked as though he could not decide whether he was horrified or aroused. Mara smiled, hoping it was both.

“Calm down, your grace,” Vowrawn said. “Your niece is serving her country; I asked her to provide this little demonstration.”

Baras’s head snapped toward Vowrawn. “I would thank you to cease sneaking into my household to involve this child in your politicking, Vowrawn.”

“I did nothing of the sort,” Vowrawn replied, affronted at the suggestion. “I merely saw Lady Thrask at the Gardiners’ ball last week and requested her assistance. I knew this body would not believe a word I said without proof, and your niece is the only other nobly-born sith in the city. I am gratified she remembered her heritage enough to keep up her training.”

“I would not shame you by refusing a request from the Dark Council, uncle,” Mara said, investing as much sincerity as she could into the statement.

Baras stared at her, his face unreadable.

“This bickering and your pathetic demonstration are pointless; we could kill you now where you stand.” That was Lord Ravage.

“You could,” Mara agreed. “Of course, I have this extremely valuable, rather large man whose body will stop a bullet or blade admirably. He would make an excellent shield while I made my exit. Or,” she raised her eyebrows, “perhaps I had no intention of living through this mission. Do any of you think you could get to me before I opened his throat?”

“More to the point,” Vowrawn put in, “do any of you know how long she’s been in this room?”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“What do you think, Marr?” Vowrawn asked.

Mara pulled the blade away from Marr’s throat so he could speak. “Impressive. If a bit sloppy.”

Mara laughed and placed the knife on the table, then shifted her hands to help the man to his feet.

“I am pleased you did not slit my throat for that insult, Duchess Thrask,” Marr said mildly, rubbing his throat as he turned to face her. There was a small bruise forming on his face where it hit the table.

“I have never killed someone for offering honest criticism, my lord,” she replied. Truthfully she could have ended that sentence at ‘I have never killed someone’, but he need not know that. “Indeed, you are correct. My formal training ended when my mother died, and I have been self-taught since then. A true sith,” she could not stop the grimace that came with that phrase, “properly trained, will eclipse my skill considerably.”

Marr nodded and turned back to Vowrawn.

“Can you guarantee access to suitable individuals for this mission and assure their loyalty?

Mara’s hands clenched into fists. “And why should you question their loyalty, my lord?”

Marr turned a glare on her. “Resentment toward a conquering nation is natural, Lady Thrask. I will also note Horuset has not offered such assistance at all in the last century.” That was directed at Vowrawn.

“You never asked,” Mara bit out. “For all your vaunted talk of a unified Dromund Kaas, you treat my people like inconvenient pests, not like full citizens who would serve.”

Vowrawn stood hurriedly. “Thank you, my dear. I believe this conversation has moved beyond you.”

She stared at Marr, ignoring him.

“And you, Duchess Maranel Thrask of Pesegam, would you complete your training and serve the nation that conquered your people if I ordered it?”

Mara raised her chin, meeting his green eyes. “I would.”

Someone snorted. “A woman in the military; she would be ravaged within hours of arriving in camp.”

“And the offending officer would be discovered later in pieces, Jaddus,” Vowrawn responded coldly. “And he would deserve exactly what he got.”

All that was background noise, heard distantly as Mara held Marr’s gaze, willing him to understand. They stared at one another for several more moments, and then Marr spoke without looking away from her.

“It is my recommendation that we proceed as Vowrawn suggests. Quinn, I want you to work with Lord Vowrawn to draw up a deployment plan.” He turned back to the table, looking at each of his fellows in turn. “I hope you will stand with me. It is time we understood, in deed as well as law, that the strength of our sith brethren is the strength of Dromund Kaas.”

Marr picked up the knife and offered it to her hilt first. She took it and inclined her head respectfully before turning to the rest of the table.

“I am sure you must have mountains of work to do, my lords, but I must prevail upon you to break for dinner. You would be doing a kindness to Duke Baras’s cook and housekeeper if you ate the meal they have prepared for you before it gets cold.”

She smiled graciously, and a few of the men chuckled and stood. Her eyes met Quinn’s briefly; his shocked expression was gone, careful neutrality in its place. She curtseyed to the table and turned to leave.

With that she swept out of the room, waiting until the door was shut to sheath her weapon. With a relieved exhale, she hurried to the dining room to make sure Mrs. Spratt was ready to receive the duke’s guests.

***

Late that evening, the Dark Council finally adjourned their after-dinner discussion. The men crowded the vestibule as they donned overcoats and waited for horses or carriages to be pulled up in front of the townhouse. Malavai stood at the back of the group, to Mara’s relief. She sidled up behind him and touched his elbow.

He did not jump. He’d been expecting her, then.

“May I speak with you?” She asked.

“Only if you swear I will be returned to the hall in one piece,” he replied.

Mara narrowed her eyes, trying to decide if that was a deadpan joke or earnest.

“I swear I will try not to gut you, my lord, but I can make no promises,” she said finally.

A hint of a smile flitted across his lips and he nodded. She pulled him into the now-empty study and closed the door.

“I expect you have questions for me,” she said without preamble.

“How long have you been conspiring with Lord Vowrawn?”

She blinked. “That’s it? You’re not concerned about…”

“Your ability to bring a grown man to his knees? No,” he said. “Given how you thrashed me that day at The Citadel, your skills do not surprise me in the slightest. Nor, really, does your connection to Vowrawn, but I am concerned about it.”

Mara cocked her head in surprise. “You are taking this rather well, Malavai.”

“Did it start that day when I saw you leaving his offices?”

Mara pressed her lips together. She had been prepared for him to grill her about her willingness to kill, not about her political activities. This line of questioning led far too quickly to plans he could actually ruin if he uttered the wrong word to the wrong person.

“No,” he continued thoughtfully. “You referenced him in your letter to me about Broysc; it has been going on far longer.” He swore and stepped away from the door, pulling her with him and lowering his voice to a whisper. “He did have prior knowledge about your zersium miners and their labor strike. Because you gave it to him.”

At her continued silence he grabbed her upper arms, yanking her closer to him as he glared at her.

“Do you know how dangerous this is?” His hands tightened on her arms painfully, as if he wanted to shake her. “If your uncle finds out you have been corresponding with one of his political enemies from under his roof-“

“I have never corresponded with Vowrawn,” she hissed, wrenching away from him. “I am not stupid.”

“But you are conspiring against your uncle.”

“I am not.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m gathering allies in case I need them, Malavai. Do you really think my uncle is just going to let me go the day I turn twenty-five?”

“That will not be how he sees it.”

“You’re worried about me,” she said, smiling.

“Kriff, woman, this is not a game!”

Mara took a step back, consciously keeping her hand from going for her knife. They still whispered, but the invective in his tone was unlike anything she’d heard from him before.

Malavai pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath.

“He knows now, Mara,” he said more gently, taking her hand. “Maybe not everything – maybe he will believe Vowrawn approached you without prompting. But going forward you will not be able to pay a call, send a letter, or even speak to Vowrawn at social functions without arousing his suspicion.”

“You may be right,” she conceded. Malavai raised an eyebrow and she scowled at him before continuing. “This was a necessary risk. It sounds like the Council will indeed embrace Broysc’s harebrained plan. If my uncle’s suspicion is the price I pay for giving our forces a better chance at Corellia so be it.”

His eyebrows shot up. “That was very nearly patriotic, Lady Thrask.”

Mara glared at him. “If you lose this war, Horuset loses, too, Malavai. Our fates are entwined, as much as I might hate to admit it.”

He reached out and stroked her cheek. “If you say that to your uncle, with that fervor, he may believe Vowrawn prevailed on you only recently to participate in his plan.”

She leaned her head into his palm. “I’ll have to try that,” she whispered.

“Please do. I want you to be safe.” His voice dropped seductively and the hand on her face slid down her body and around to the small of her back. “Although I suppose I should not fear for your safety when you have an unknown number of weapons secreted away on your person.”

The shudder that began with his hand whispering over her body became a low chuckle. He would have to work much harder if he wanted an answer to his unspoken question, but Mara did not mind letting him try.

“Did you have a question for me, Lord Quinn?” she asked, trying to keep her voice nonchalant as he pressed his body against hers.

“My dear, I should like to know where you keep your knives sheathed,” he whispered, his lips tickling her earlobe.

“A woman must have some secrets, Malavai,” she responded. Her right leg was between his, and she shifted it slightly to keep from pressing the knife on her thigh into his leg. “Else you shall grow bored and move on.”

His soft laugh sent a wave of desire through her, but fortunately for her resolve, he pulled back slightly and met her gaze.

“You, my dear, are a wholly unique woman; boredom in your presence is quite impossible.” He paused, and then continued earnestly, “If you do not wish to tell me, I will not push you.”

“Thank you, darling. I would prefer not to,” she said.

He nodded and kissed her forehead before pulling away until their entwined hands were the only point of contact between them.

“I should go; we’ve been sequestered in here too long already,” he said.

“Fortunately, everyone will think this was a tryst between lovers.”

Malavai’s blue eyes took on a rakish glint. “A pity that is not quite the truth. Shall I send a carriage for you tomorrow night?”

Tomorrow night was the family dinner Mara would have with Malavai and his mother and sister.

“Yes, please. I’d rather not have my uncle’s driver and footman scuttling around Gorinth House reporting my every move.”

He nodded. “Until then,” he said, kissing her cheek.

Without another word, he opened the door to the vestibule. The crowd outside had dwindled, though it sounded like there were still enough people awaiting transportation that their absence may not have been immediately noticed.

Mara left the study by the door that led into the morning room.

***

The following evening, Mara found herself in an unfamiliar drawing room sipping a cup of coffee with Henrietta, Dowager Countess of Balmorra, and Lady Georgiana Quinn. They had only just left the dinner table. Malavai had excused himself temporarily to take his whiskey while preparing several documents - the debt agreement between the late earl and Duke Baras among them - for Mara’s review. The atmosphere in the drawing room was nearly companionable but held the underlying tension of people who did not know one another well.

Lady Georgiana was a tiny blonde thing, her stature promising she would be short even when she reached her full height. She had an impish air to her that left Mara surprised the girl hadn’t tried launching peas across the table during dinner. Such was her charm that, if she had, Mara would have found herself hard-pressed to resist sending a spoonful of the tiny missiles back at the younger woman. Imagining the look on Malavai’s face in response to such irreverence brought an involuntary smile to Mara’s face.

No, Malavai clearly took his manners and his dark coloring from his mother. Lady Quinn’s dark, thick hair carried a hint of silver streaks that somehow only made her more striking. She was shorter than Mara by a good hand span and yet Lady Quinn’s bearing was such that a stranger entering the room would know immediately who the lady of the house was. While she was perfectly friendly with Mara – beyond the charm Kaasian ladies had drilled into them from birth – she was reserved and proper. Even now she sat primly at the edge of her chair, her back straight. Malavai was fortunate he favored Lady Quinn in looks and manners; if he hadn’t, there was little chance anyone would have taken his authority as earl seriously if his mother were in the room.

Over the evening a great many frustrated looks had passed between mother and daughter. Despite that, the affection between them was obvious; Lady Quinn’s longsuffering frustration held a warmth that revived an ache Mara had thought long healed. She wondered if her own mother would have looked on her with the same bemused fondness, and hated herself for having to speculate. Mara’s memories of her mother were too pale, too colored by childhood, for her to know for sure.

At present Georgiana was describing her latest music lesson, complaining about her instructor’s insistence that she sing her own accompaniment on the concerto she was learning.

“Master Kendoh knows I hate to sing and yet he continues to insist I do so.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “I have taken to singing as poorly as I can. If I must suffer, he must suffer.”

Lady Quinn rolled her eyes but held her tongue; clearly this was a continued sore spot between them.

Mara smiled and decided to make an attempt at keeping the peace between them. “Lady Georgiana, has it not occurred to you that your poor performance is why your master thinks you need practice?”

“You are rather impertinent, your grace, in our home three hours and already siding against me,” the girl replied teasingly.

“I apologize,” Mara replied, matching her tone. “I had not realized you took such pleasure in your master’s torment. In that case, I would advise you to sing as poorly as you can. A woman ought to pursue her hobbies as she’s able.”

Lady Quinn’s eyes looked like they might fall out of her head.

“I believe we must return to more ladylike subjects, Lady Thrask, before my dear mother faints. Do you play?”

Mara shook her head. “I’m afraid I am not very accomplished in the womanly arts. My one skill is for shockingly bad embroidery.”

“That’s odd; I should think a woman of your station would have ample opportunity to refine such skills.”

“I never had any great talent for it. I applied myself to riding and weapons, where I have natural affinity, and reading, which I enjoy.”

Georgiana cocked her head, a slow smile spreading across her face. “You and my brother are well matched, then. You two can ride all day and arrive home just in time to provide dull company to your dinner guests.”

Lady Quinn nearly choked on her coffee and turned a mortified face to Mara. In the same moment Malavai’s voice came from behind her.

“Georgiana!”

The girl jerked around and made eye contact with her brother. In that moment their familial resemblance, the same stubborn set to the jaw and intense blue eyes, was striking despite the difference in age and coloring. Georgiana blushed slightly.

“Lady Thrask, I must apologize for my daughter,” Lady Quinn said, shooting a glare at Georgiana before smiling apologetically at Mara.

Mara looked at the three of them – Malavai was standing behind Georgiana’s chair now – and chuckled.

“Please, don’t make yourself uneasy, Lady Quinn. Your son can attest to the fact that I am known to be rather impertinent myself, and so cannot judge.”

The dark-haired woman slumped in her seat a little with relief. Of course, even slumped her posture was better than Mara’s was when she was on her best behavior.

“Lady Thrask, might I prevail on you to examine some of the documents I mentioned to you several days ago?” Quinn asked.

Mara nodded. “You may. That is, if you ladies will release me.”

Lady Quinn smiled and stood. “Of course, Lady Thrask.”

Georgiana made a face. “That doesn’t sound romantic at all, Malavai. I thought we talked about this.”

Malavai’s face turned as red as Mara’s. Mara, for her part, tried to hold in a laugh and utterly failed.

“Lady Quinn,” she began when she could speak again, “You and your lovely daughter must come have tea with me and my ladies. I have enjoyed your company immensely.”

“Ah... of course, your grace,” the older woman replied through clenched teeth. “We should be delighted.”

Both women curtseyed. Mara moved toward the door, and as she passed Georgiana she reached out and squeezed the girl’s arm.

“Don’t worry, I can provide the romance,” Mara whispered to her.

“You are going to keep Malavai on his toes,” she replied, her tone just as quiet.

Mara patted her arm and left the room.

Malavai ushered Mara into his study and closed the door.

“You must have realized that Georgiana and I will join forces against you any chance we can get,” Mara teased.

Malavai sighed and rolled his eyes skyward. “I knew you would be a bad influence.”

“Me? Darling, I’ve only just arrived. No, I will simply nurture her innate talents.”

Malavai shook his head, the rueful smile on his face fading as he looked down at the papers stacked neatly on his desk and sat down in the massive leather chair behind it. Mara sat down in front of the desk and reached for the heavy book that contained his ledgers.

“May I?”

He nodded and selected another document and handed it to her. “This details the debt agreement between my father and Duke Baras.”

Mara nodded and settled back in her chair. She scanned the first page of the debt agreement before looking up to grab a pen and ink pot from the side of the desk.

“I need paper for notes,” she said.

Malavai passed a blank sheet to her and she continued reading, taking notes. The debt agreement spanned many separate loans. She felt her eyes widen as she tallied the different amounts together. The total was staggering; far more than Balmorra’s annual income, more than Malavai could fetch selling the entire estate piece by piece. The interest rate was ridiculously high. Legal, but only just. A structure for repayment was conspicuously absent.

“How in the world did your father borrow this much coin from my uncle? What could he possibly have used it for?”

“Gambling,” Malavai replied curtly.

Mara looked up. “This must have been a terrible shock coming on the heels of his death.”

He sighed. “Father and I were never terribly close, but I never dreamed he would leave Balmorra so impoverished.”

Mara reached out and squeezed his hand, then opened the ledger and began scanning. Her heart sank as she read. Given the size of the debt and the estate’s income, Malavai would run Balmorra into the ground paying little more than the interest on the outstanding loans. She had hoped her estate could, perhaps, cover a single lump-sum payment on the debt, but that was simply not feasible, not without selling a substantial portion of her holdings.

Her mind abruptly jumped back to that stormy morning at The Citadel, when her uncle had warned her away from Malavai. She had, fool that she was, assumed her uncle had simply been tormenting her about her choice. Now, she realized, he had been toying with her in an entirely different way. Nothing could have recommended Malavai to her more strongly than her uncle’s disapproval; Baras wanted her to fall for the impoverished earl, to marry him and spend her entire fortune digging him out of debt. To be the agent of her own financial ruin. She had no doubt, if she went down that road, that none but her dear Uncle Baras would be there at the end to offer relief from the crushing debt in exchange for most or all of her lands.

The problem was, of course, the first part of that plan had worked. Even if she denied her feelings enough to end their relationship, she could not – would not – sit back and watch her uncle crush Malavai and his family, both because of her feelings for the earl and because she refused to let her uncle ruin anyone else the way he’d ruined Vette’s family. She frowned, tapping a finger against her lower lip.

“When does my uncle want you to begin making payments?”

“He has not said.”

Mara nodded. Of course he hadn’t. Mara had no doubt Baras was waiting until he had married her off before suddenly misplacing the benevolence that had left Balmorra solvent for this long.

She bit her lower lip thoughtfully. This would be tricky, stepping deliberately into her uncle’s trap. But she was aware of the trap and she had her secret correspondence with Tremel along with the political resources she had cultivated while in town, neither of which her uncle could have planned for. If she tread carefully, she could maneuver through this and deal the first blow against Duke Baras before she even left for home. It was audacious and stupid, which was hopefully why he wouldn’t see it coming.

Doing it on Malavai’s behalf and gaining his gratitude was an unexpected benefit, she insisted to herself, not the object of this complex exercise.

“You are very quiet,” Malavai said softly.

“I’m thinking,” she replied, staring at nothing. She snapped her gaze back to her notes.

“Even without my parents’ will, I would not have access to enough coin to alleviate this in full,” she said, looking up at him. “I had no idea a person could spend this much money in a lifetime and have nothing to show for it.”

He nodded and looked down at his hands. “I worried that might be the case.” Despite his words, his posture seemed slightly relieved.

“Fortunately, however, he must, by law, allow for payment over time if you cannot pay the entirety up front. I think we can make arrangements that will allow you to adhere to most any payment structure my uncle demands without losing your estate,” she said.

His head snapped up. “I beg your pardon?”

“You really think I would take one look at this challenge and give up without even trying?” She tsked. “I should have thought you knew me better than that by now.”

“I meant that as an illustration of how dire my situation is, not a commentary on your fortitude, Mara.”

“It is dire,” she confirmed, standing up to pace. “But I can help, and we can begin now. I will dispatch a letter to my steward instructing him to open a direct trade agreement with Balmorra, rather than having you purchase your durasteel on the open market. The terms will be very favorable to you. Based on what I’ve seen of your ledgers that will reduce the overhead on your factories significantly.”

His mouth had fallen open as she spoke. She smiled and continued her pacing.

“The other thing is that interest rate. Fifteen percent is ridiculous by any measure; I cannot believe your father would agree to it. Do you know how many Dark Council members have outstanding debts?” She asked, coming to his side of the desk and perching on the edge of it.

“All of them, of course,” he replied, confusion on his face.

“Indeed. It should be very simple, then, to convince them to lower the ceiling on interest rates. Since all of the councilors were almost certainly smarter in their negotiations than your father, I can easily see that cutting your interest rate in half.”

“You’re talking about rewriting laws for my own personal gain,” he gasped. “I cannot possibly support that.”

She grinned and reached out to run her fingers through his hair. “Fortunately, your support is not required.”

He glared at her. She rolled her eyes.

“It will also benefit numerous tenant farmers and others who have been swindled by usurers. You may rest peacefully knowing you have been the inspiration for a long-overdue change that will benefit everyone.”

He closed his eyes, whether in frustration or relief she could not tell.

“Why are you doing this?” There was a distinct somber note to the question.

Mara frowned, taken aback by the question.

“I want to keep my uncle off-balance; this will make it harder for him to come after me when I turn twenty-five,” she said.

He looked up at her, his blue eyes burning.

“There are easier, cheaper ways for you to resist him,” he said. “Ways that don’t endanger you. Why are you doing this?”

He stood, forcing her to look up at him to hold his gaze.

“I like the danger of it. If I win…”

She trailed off as he cradled her face in both hands, his grip just tighter than was comfortable.

“Stop talking about this as if it’s just you. As if you are not inextricably linking your estate with mine. As if you are not lobbying the Dark Council on my behalf. Why are you doing this?”

She swallowed.

“I have a duty to stop him. I won’t let him hurt anyone else. I… I won’t let him hurt you.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

He closed his eyes, a look of profound sadness settling onto his face. She gripped his upper arms and leaned forward.

“Malavai, what-“

He smashed his lips to hers, something between a moan and a sob escaping him. She tried to pull away slightly, to finish her question, but when her hands found his chest she pulled him toward her; when she opened her mouth it was to admit the heat of his tongue. His hands were everywhere - tangling in her hair, roaming down her back, pushing her gloves down her arms and teasing his fingers across her bare flesh.

Silk rustled against wood as Mara yanked the skirt of her gown up to her knees and parted her legs. She grabbed his ass with both hands, soft wool over firm muscle, and pulled him closer until his thighs bumped against the edge of the desk. He hooked a hand into the small of her back and pressed her flush against his body. She could feel him, hard and straining, and writhed against him desperately. The muscles in his ass flexed under her hands as he ground against her in turn.

“Wait.”

His voice was hoarse; the word sounded like it was dragged from his throat. He loosened his grip on her and stepped back, letting air between their bodies.

Mara blinked, gripping his upper arms tightly to anchor herself as she dragged her mind back to the present.

“This… this and you wishing to…” he took a deep breath, as if trying to gather his thoughts. “To join our estates, at least in business. Am I correct to read this as a deepening of your affection for me?”

That was far too many words for Mara to parse in her current state. She cupped his cheek with her hand.

“Speak plainly, Malavai.”

He swallowed. “I wish to marry you, if you would have me.”

She closed her eyes and pulled him closer, pressing her forehead to his. She knew that would be his answer and yet she was utterly unprepared for the conflicting emotions that erupted within her. After several moments of silence she pulled back and looked into his eyes. They had no right to be so blue, she thought to herself.

“I care deeply for you, Malavai. And I would have you. But not yet.”

He frowned. “And this…”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Have you never taken a lover, Lord Quinn?”

“Mara, that is not what I want from you.”

She reached down and ran her hand over the length of him. His breath hitched and his eyes rolled closed.

“Liar.”

He grabbed her wrist, yanking her hand away from his cock and pinning it to the desk next to her.

“That is not all I want from you,” he amended, his eyes narrowing. “And you must know that, if we do this, we will be subject to no end of gossip and speculation as to when an engagement will be announced.”

“Malavai, I will happily marry you when I have reached my majority and may make that decision without my uncle’s input. I see no reason we cannot enjoy each other now. I thought that was typical even by Kaasian standards.”

She reached for him with her free hand, which he easily caught.

“I want to do this properly,” he said. “Not on my desk.”

“Why, Malavai, you’re quite the romantic,” she replied, her voice low and breathy. “There’s always that sofa, if you’d prefer.”

“And you, Lady Thrask,” he said, wrapping his arms around her to pin her wrists behind her back, “are quite the experienced woman.”

He was leaning over her now, her body arched against him because of how he held her arms.

“If you mean that to be an insult you will be sorely disappointed.”

He nipped at her collarbone and trailed kisses along the neckline of her gown, drawing a gasp from her lips. She arched her back further in anticipation, trying to press herself more firmly against his lips.

“On the contrary,” he murmured against her skin, making her shiver. “I look forward to you demonstrating your knowledge for me.”

“Even on the desk in your study?” She asked playfully.

He released her wrists and kept one arm around her shoulders, cradling her, and with his free hand stroked her knee, his fingers warm through the silk of her stockings. He worked his way slowly up her thigh, past her garters, drawing a slight gasp from her when his fingertips found her bare flesh.  She tensed, clutching the front of his waistcoat, aching for him to touch her.

“We can start here.” He nuzzled her and pressed his lips to the hollow of her throat. “But I hope you will stay with me tonight.”

He continued stroking the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh trailing his fingertips up to her hip and tracing the bottom of her stays across her stomach to her other leg, touching her everywhere except where she desperately wanted him. He laughed softly in her ear as she arched against his hand desperately.

“Malavai,” she whimpered. With a deep breath she collected her thoughts. When she spoke again, she was proud of how steady her voice was. “Of course I will stay. I thought you would object if I asked.”

He smiled down at her, a rakish, dangerous smile, and ran a finger over her wet opening. Any last vestiges of coherent thought shattered and she mewled in response, propping one foot on the edge of the desk, opening herself to him.

“Perhaps you are a bad influence on me as well,” he murmured.

His lips claimed hers as he found her clit. She canted her hips toward his hand, seeking, desperate for more. He swallowed every sound she made and took his time as he worked at her, finally reaching a pressure and rhythm that had her entire body trembling. When he pulled back she swore loudly as her hips bucked against his hand, her voice charged with need.

“You must be more quiet, darling,” he said, nipping at her bottom lip.

He slid two fingers into her as he finished the sentence, daring her to respond. She met his gaze defiantly and moaned, exaggerating the pleasure thrumming through her. She jerked in surprise when he clamped a hand over her mouth and pressed her down firmly until her back hit the top of the desk. For a moment indignation clouded out everything else and she grabbed his wrist to wrench his hand from her face. But as she looked up at him, one eyebrow arched arrogantly as he watched her come apart in his hands, she groaned with the fresh bolt of need that flashed through her. She shifted her grip on his wrist and pressed her lips to his palm, then to each of his fingertips, before sucking his index finger into her mouth.

Given his soft groan and the intensity of his gaze, he knew she was teasing the many things she could do with her mouth to other parts of his body. She smirked but obediently pressed his palm to her mouth when she felt her volume rising with the exquisite pleasure he was creating for her. Before long she gripped his arm tightly in both hands as she spiraled closer and closer to climax, every nerve and muscle in her body stretched taut as he stroked her urgently, his thumb swirling around her clit.

His eyes held hers as the first tinglings of her orgasm erupted. Mara bolted upright, yanking his head toward hers with both hands to claim his mouth in a needy kiss. He drank in the heat of her mouth and the vibrations of her screams, his hands expertly drawing out her pleasure until she went limp in his arms, whimpering quietly.

Mara opened her eyes when Malavai gently pulled his fingers out of her. Her body twitched involuntarily at the separation. He helped her sit up fully and held her against him, stroking her hair soothingly as she buried her face in his neck.

“Oh, the night we will have,” he said softly into her hair, his voice straining with need.

She took his earlobe between her teeth gently and then trailed kisses along his jaw.

“We need to find a bedroom immediately,” she growled, “or I will indeed convince you to take me here, on this desk.”

“You will find I am more suggestible than I anticipated,” he answered.

He bent her back toward the desk and grabbed both her hands and pushed them over her head. As he did so, their arms swept several large tomes and a paperweight off his desk. Everything crashed to the floor.

Mara yelped in surprise at the loud thump and sat up, her face nearly colliding with Malavai’s. Footsteps trotted toward the door to the study, a voice calling through the door.

“My lord? Are you okay?”

Malavai cursed and hurried toward the door, smoothing his hair. Mara pulled her knees up onto the desk, shaking hands pulling her skirt down around her legs.

Quinn was a step away from the door when it opened and a footman, Jillins, poked his blonde head into the room.

“My lord, we heard a loud-” he cut off, his eyes riveted on something over Quinn’s shoulder.

Quinn turned to follow the other man’s gaze and froze. Mara was still sitting primly on his desk, pretending to read one of the papers that hadn’t been scattered to the floor. She had arranged herself modestly, but her hair was a mess, stray strands tickling her shoulders and neck. Her face still glowed with a sheen of sweat and her full lips were dark and kiss-bitten. He doubted Jillins knew her well enough to see the flush darkening her red skin, but her location, disheveled appearance and the spilled contents of his desk spoke eloquently to their recent activities.

Quinn felt his body quicken at the sight. He had just enough presence of mind to strangle the appreciative groan that started as he looked at her. Worse, he saw that same appreciation reflected in the footman’s face.

“Focus, Jillins!” He snapped, grabbing the man by the shoulder and manhandling him back into the hall, closing the study door behind them.

Jillins shook himself and ducked his head quickly. “My apologies, my lord. I worried you would need assistance.”

“We- I am fine, as you can see. But your presence is fortuitous, as I was about to call for someone.”

“You… you were, sir?” Jillins’s brown eyes widened considerably.

“Yes. I want you to make up the blue room for Lady Thrask, and send someone to Duke Baras’s home for a change of clothes. The messenger should ask for Miss Willsaam. The duchess will be staying with us for the night.”

“Ah… yes, sir. Of course. It shall be done immediately.”

Jillins bowed.

“And one last thing, Jillins,”

“Sir?” The footman swallowed visibly; Quinn’s voice had taken a tone the staff knew to fear.

“If I catch you leering at the duchess like that again, I will have no hesitation about taking you to the stable yard to shoot you dead. My conscience will be clear. Do you understand me?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Good. Dismissed.”

Quinn returned to the study.

“I’ve asked Jillins to send someone to Baras’s home for you things,” he said. “I hope I did not-”

He stopped short when he turned toward her, and this yime he did groan. She had shifted so she was once again sitting on the edge of the desk, facing the door. Her gown had not shifted with her. The skirt was bunched nearly around her waist, baring her thighs completely, an enticing strip of red skin between the white lace of her garters and the grey silk of her gown. Her full lips were turned up in a half-smile that promised a night of licentious pleasure and left him with the nearly overwhelming desire to see her lovely mouth wrapped around his cock.

“I hope you did not abuse that boy too much for how he stared at me,” she teased.

“I abused him exactly as much as was warranted,” he replied flatly.

He closed the distance between them in two long strides and took her hand in his, pulling her off the desk and walking toward the other door in the room. “My rooms are this way.”

She didn’t move. He turned to look back at her, wondering if she had become absolutely decided upon goading him into taking her on his desk. A part of him hoped she did insist.

Instead, her face was utterly serious.

“Jealousy does not become you, Malavai,” she admonished.

He pressed his lips together in annoyance, then sighed after a long moment. She was right, of course; the footman was no threat to him, nor did the boy deserve to be the scapegoat of Quinn’s internal conflict.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You don’t need to apologize to me,” she answered, joining him. “Apologize to the boy.”

“I will. Tomorrow. But first,” he swept an exaggerated bow and offered his arm, “May I have the immense pleasure of your company in my bed, your grace?”

She chuckled, staring up at him, her amber eyes twinkling.

“Of course my lord,” she answered formally, taking his arm and leaning close until her lips brushed his ear. “When I’m done, you will agree that ‘immense pleasure’ is an understatement.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I can hear the questions now: why isn't Mara wearing underwear. The answer is, "drawers" as they were commonly called at this point in time, were thought of as men's clothing. In the early regency it was considered rather risque for a woman to wear them. Mara wears drawers when she's dressed to for weapons access (else she'd seriously flash anyone she had to fight the minute she drew a knife) and adheres to normal feminine sartorial rules otherwise.


	12. Consummation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinn gives Mara an intimate tour of the earl's bedroom. Mara receives a surprising visit from a fellow Horusetian noblewoman.

Quinn ushered Mara through his bedroom door with a hand on the small of her back. The walk from his study to his rooms, and the necessity of maintaining at least a modicum of decorum in front of the servants and, potentially, his family, had slowed his pulse back to normal. It was not that his desire had fled, precisely, but absent an immediate outlet it had transformed into a nervous disbelief that Mara was here and that his desire was reciprocated.

He turned toward her, his stomach fluttering nervously as he closed the distance between them. She growled - a possessive, impatient sound - and reached for him as soon as he was within arm’s length, her hands going immediately for his cravat.

As she worked at the knot she stared up at him with her glowing eyes, the exposed skin of her neck and chest an inviting landscape of shadow and curves in the low candlelight of the room. Their location and her obvious ardor triggered his imagination, and suddenly every fantasy he’d indulged since their separation flashed across his mind in the span of a heartbeat, culminating with the vision of her lying on his desk, his fingers buried in her slick heat as she keened for him.

Desire heated his blood until he was certain he would burn to ash in the fire of his own lust if he did not touch her. When he took her in his arms, there was nothing courtly about the gesture; he pulled her to him, answering her primal growl with one of his own.

He pulled her lips to his desperately, as if kissing her were the only thing he’d been made to do. And in that moment, he believed it was. As his tongue claimed her mouth and her body rolled against his, there was nothing else. No Baras, no debt, no conflicting interests of any kind. Even his mother and sister removed themselves from his reality. All he was, and all he wanted in life, was here in this room, blissfully outside of time and every-day responsibility.

He raked his teeth across her lower lip, earning him a sharp cry, and to his surprise she pulled away. Her hands, which had paused at his neck when he grabbed her, made quick work of what remained of his cravat. Cool air caressed his skin when she pulled the strip of silk away and let it flutter to the floor. He shuddered when she ran a fingertip up the center of his throat.

She favored him with a small lascivious smile and pushed his tailcoat down his arms. As he removed it entirely, her amber eyes shifted back to his neck.

“Would it shock you to know I have fantasized about this?” She asked, leaning forward to press her lips to his neck.

She guided his hands to her back, to the ties that secured her dress. He obediently fumbled with the knots, his dexterity severely hampered by the waves of desire rolling through him.

“About… my neck?”

“Mhmm,” she hummed against his skin. She pulled back slightly to look at him. The jeweled neckline of her gown dropped fractionally when he conquered the first tie of her dress and moved on to the other.

“Do you know the legend of how the sith came to be?”

“I cannot say that I do,” he answered, confusion cooling his ardor slightly. The second tie of her dress came undone.

She laughed quietly and took her hands off him long enough to let her gown fall down her body. Quinn began working on the ties at the back of her petticoat as she attacked the buttons of his waistcoat.

“It is related, I promise. It is said the first sith was created from the matriarch mowhef, millennia ago. The gods were so impressed with her ferocity and wisdom, they granted her sentient form. She took one of the gods as her lover, and together they created the beginnings of our race.”

“So you see, I am a daughter of predators and deities.” Her petticoat joined her gown, pooled at her feet.

She stepped out of the puddle of fabric clad only in her stays and stockings, her bearing such a perfect mix of regal grace and hunger he could, in that moment, easily believe the legend to be true. He shrugged out of his waistcoat clumsily as she closed the distance between them, one arm going around his waist and the other coming up to his neck, where she stroked his sensitive skin with the backs of her fingers.

“You have the most beautiful neck, Malavai,” she purred.

Some part of his brain told him to react the way any animal reacted when caught by a predator. Instead he wrapped his arms around her, luxuriating in the softness of her skin and the perfect curve of her arse. He felt a tickle of air across his skin as she inhaled deeply, scenting him, and trailed kisses along his neck.

When her teeth caught his flesh gently his knees nearly buckled.

He groaned appreciatively and she met his gaze, her eyes warm and a touch dangerous.

“Would you like more?”

“God yes,” he replied, his voice an unrecognizable needy growl.

She shuddered in his arms as he spoke, clearly pleased with his response. She kissed his lips gently and then turned his head to the side, trailing kisses over his skin, teasing his flesh with her lips and tongue until he trembled in anticipation. He thrust his hand into her hair and twisted until she gasped against him.

“Do it,” he growled.

He felt more than heard her low chuckle. And then her teeth raked his skin. He groaned her name and clung to her as she alternated soothing kisses with increasingly intense bites, until his neck was aflame and the pleasure and pain were too entwined to tell apart. The last time her teeth clamped down on him, he feared he would come right then and there.

He yanked her head back, her sharp cry firing his blood, and pressed his lips to her neck, kissing and biting his way to her collarbone. She grabbed the back of his head and pulled his mouth to the ridges that ran down her sternum. He ran his tongue over the top ridge and grinned wolfishly when she moaned and her hand tightened in his hair.

“They’re sensitive to touch,” he said with an incredulous laugh, pulling away to look at her.

“Yes,” she gasped.

Quinn made quick work of the front closure of her stays, tossing the garment onto her gown. He separated from her long enough to discard the rest of his own clothing. When he pulled her to him again, she guided a hand to the small of her back. The flesh there was ridged like her chest. When he stroked it with his fingertips, she gasped and arched against him, pressing herself against his thigh.

“To think you wear such sensitive flesh uncovered every day,” he murmured, raking his teeth gently across the ridges between her breasts. She sagged against him and moaned something in a language he did not recognize - Sith, most likely. “I shall have to keep this in mind the next time we are alone in a carriage.”

“I shall hold you to that,” she growled, her hand finding his cock. She pressed her warm palm against it gently before stroking him. He groaned against her skin and shoved her the last few steps to his bed. She stumbled backward and sat down hard on the mattress. If he did not take her now he felt certain he would explode.

He climbed onto the bed with her and grabbed her wrists as he had before, in his study before they were interrupted. He pushed her into the mattress until she was laid out next to him, her arms locked above her head, her back arched slightly. Somehow, he summoned enough self control to pause a moment and let his eyes roam over her body completely, from her smoldering amber eyes to the lace garters that still held her stockings in place.

“Dear gods, you’re beautiful,” he ground out, pushing her thighs apart with his free hand and shifting to kneel between them. She twitched her wrists in his grasp, and he let them go to grab her hips.

He hilted himself in her in one fluid thrust, the movement punctuated by his low groan and her sharp cry.

He held himself inside her for a long moment, luxuriating in the heat of her core, feeling her muscles tighten around him when she ground herself against him. When he began moving, it was languid and slow so he could watch her mewl and writhe under him. She obliged him, undulating in rhythm with him. When she reached down to play with her clit, he groaned, his control faltering as he thrust into her harder than intended. Mara gasped and a soft _harder_ escaped her lips.

He paused, pulling out of her slowly, a feral smile on his face.

“Like this?” He snapped his hips against her, driving his cock into her so hard the entire bed shifted when they collided.

Her answer was a sharp gasp and she braced herself against the headboard with both hands.

He grabbed one of her ankles, hugging her leg against him with one hand and pushing her stocking up her leg with the other, tossing it aside when he finally pulled it past her toes. He nuzzled her ankle gently and shifted his free hand down to trace lazy circles around her clit, moving within her with an aching slowness. He kissed her ankle, then her calf, chuckling at the increasingly desperate noises coming from her, ignoring the fact that his pace was beginning to drive him half mad with desire as well.

Her hand found his hip, digging in with her nails.

“Malavai, please,” she whimpered.

That wanton plea shattered what remained of his self control and he thrust into her as hard as he could, driving a shriek from her. He continued, bracing himself with her leg, the force of every thrust driving the bed into the wall with increasing urgency. Mara keened beneath him, mixing sharp moans with curses and encouragement in both Basic and Sith. Quinn answered with guttural noises of his own, his power of speech dwindling with his coordination until he’d abandoned any attempt at rhythm, dropping her leg and leaning down to nip at her neck as he thrust into her mindlessly.

She moaned a long _yes_ as he raked her flesh with his teeth, one hand on the curve of her breast and pinching her hardened nipple between his fingers. She dug the nails of both hands into his arse, squeezing and then dragging them up his back, leaving lines of fire in their wake.

Her voice pitched higher and he felt her body stiffen beneath him, and then she was screaming his name. Her nails dug into his back and she tightened around him. When the second wave of her orgasm convulsed through her, she moaned into his neck before her teeth clamped down on his flesh. The sensation pushed him over the edge and he thrust into her painfully as he came.

They rode out their orgasms together, shaking in one another’s arms. After a few moments they separated, the sensation dragging another whimper from him, and he rolled onto his back and held her against him, her head on his chest. He twitched a little as she ran her fingertips over his chest and stomach.

“There is so much I want to do to you,” she murmured.

“I’m sorry to say I will need slightly more than five minutes to gather myself,” he responded dryly.

Despite his words, he felt himself quicken when she laughed. She sat up on one elbow to meet his gaze, her eyes warm.

“I did not mean right this moment, dear, but generally.” Her brow furrowed as she gripped his chin and turned his head to get a look at his neck. “Is that case you brought to The Citadel here? I do believe you will need a salve for these.”

Her fingertips brushed the bruised flesh of his neck. He winced and sat up.

“It’s in my dressing room,” he said, about to swing his legs over the side of the bed. Mara’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Let me,” she said, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “Where in your dressing room?”

He let her push him back against the pillows. “It’s inside a trunk at the back of the closet.”

She nodded and hopped off the bed, padding to the door he gestured toward. When she reappeared holding the case, he could not keep from smiling.

“What?”

“You have far too much dignity for a woman wearing naught but one stocking,” he teased.

She smiled in return. “I am told a lady should keep her poise no matter the circumstances.”

Her smile faded as she regarded his neck again. She rummaged through the case and retrieved a small bottle and clean cloth.

“Did I hurt you too much?” She asked as she dabbed his neck with the salve. He winced again; the salve was cold and stung.

“No.” He tilted her chin so she met his gaze. “I enjoyed it, and I shall enjoy knowing that you have marked me as yours.” He paused. “That was your intention, was it not?”

“It was,” she confirmed. “But you will tell me if I go too far?”

“Of course.”

By the time she finished the sting had already receded. She closed the case and stretched across the bed to put it on the far side table, her body glowing a jewel-like red against his white comforter, her still-stockinged leg bent upward. Her hair had fallen almost completely out of its coif, only about a third of it clinging stubbornly to what pins she had left. He rose onto his knees and leaned down to kiss the ridged flesh at the top of her spine, one hand removing the remaining pins from her hair. She hummed softly and rolled onto her back to face him, a wicked little smile on her face.

“Malavai, I thought you wanted more time to collect yourself,” she purred. He moaned softly when she stroked him - the mere sight of her had been enough to make him hard again - and slammed the pins down on his side table.

She laughed when he took her free hand and pulled her onto her knees.

“It would seem, darling, that I drastically underestimated your allure,” he replied.

She pushed him back toward the pillows, her hand still working at him, and leaned down to rub her nose against his.

“Well, I shall work to make sure that never happens again,” she replied.

Her insistent kiss cut off the breathless laughter that was his reply.

***

At some point in the wee hours of the morning they collapsed together in a heap of sweaty, trembling limbs, utterly spent. Despite her blissful exhaustion, Mara slept only fitfully, waking scant hours later. The candles had burned down, leaving the room dark save for the pre-dawn grey that leaked in around the drawn curtains. She smiled to herself when she looked over at Malavai, his face relaxed and peaceful in sleep, his pale skin almost glowing in the darkness. Her heart clenched warmly at the sight and her stomach fluttered nervously. After a few minutes of trying to will herself back to sleep, she carefully slipped out of bed.

She stopped in Malavai’s dressing room and selected a lightweight robe from his closet. It was a little broad in the shoulders, but otherwise fit her well. She then moved toward the door she’d noticed when she came to retrieve his medical kit, on the far end of the dressing room. Unless she missed her guess entirely, this should be…. Ah, yes. She grunted in satisfaction when she found herself in a sitting room. She knelt on a sofa set against one of the room’s windows and opened the curtains.

The window looked out onto the cobblestone streets of Kaas City. Mara curled up on the sofa to watch the city come awake, her arms wrapped around herself as the import of the prior night set in.

Nothing she did or said last night was legally binding, of course, but she had, in deed as well as word, declared her intention to, at some point in the near future, become Lady Maranel Quinn.

Mara turned that thought over in her head, the flutter in her chest intensifying a little. It was not regret, exactly, but surprise. Surprise that she had dared take this step now, before leaving her uncle’s guardianship. Surprise that she was not concerned in the slightest about the wisdom of her choice.

Vette and Jaesa would never, ever let her live down the fact that she, the renowned bane to Kaasian lords everywhere, had fallen for perhaps the most Kaasian lord she’d ever met.

That was not quite fair, of course. Yes, Malavai hewed more closely to Kaasian ideals of propriety than anyone she’d ever met, but there was an honesty in it that she found endearing, and he treated her as no Kaasian man had ever done: as an equal. And truly, that was the heart of her conviction that this was the correct move; she had assumed she would put off marriage to avoid having her authority as the Duchess of Pesegam challenged.

With Malavai, she was certain no such challenge existed. He had his own holdings, and respected her too much to overrule her authority.

He reminded Mara of her father in that way. Gilad Baras had freely taken his wife’s name and never acted as though he were made any less by her higher social station. He questioned and advised her in private – Mara had overheard a few of those conversations – but in public, in front of tenants and other nobles, they were a united front, the Duchess and her most loyal consort.

Her father had been a second son seeking a fortune. Malavai, on the other hand, brought with him a title and holdings of his own. It would be a lie to say Mara had not considered the dynastic implications of their relationship. Their children would be heirs to two estates that, taken together, were key to Dromund Kaas’s security and ability to arm itself. Never again would a either family be threatened by a small, petty man like Duke Baras. That security had not been her main objective when she began this, but it was a powerful secondary benefit.

The street below now saw light but regular traffic, artisans and others beginning their day. Footsteps padded across the carpet behind her.

“Is something wrong?” Malavai’s voice asked.

She looked back at him and extended a hand.

“No, I’m fine,” she answered, raising his hand to her lips.

He sat next to her, his brow still furrowed with concern. He was clad in a burgundy robe, his hair disheveled from their exploits and sleep. She smiled, the warmth in her chest overwhelming the anxiety, and ran her fingers through his hair, coaxing it into an even wilder arrangement. He gave a longsuffering sigh when he realized what she was doing.

“Are you always this adorably grumpy in the morning?” She asked.

His frown deepened to a scowl, which only made her laugh. She leaned over to kiss his cheek and he caught her wrist and yanked her toward him, catching her with both arms.

“Why, Lady Thrask, I thought you far too smart to fall for such an obvious trap,” he murmured, rubbing his nose against hers.

“Dear me, whatever shall I do?” She raised an eyebrow and filled her voice with as much feigned dismay as she could.

He laughed and kissed her forehead and then her nose. When he pulled away his face had turned serious again.

“You’re sure you’re alright?” he asked.

“Of course, I’m merely preoccupied by the gravity of what we have done. It is not every day I agree to marry someone, not even in the somewhat distant terms I have given you.” It was her turn to frown at him thoughtfully. “To be honest, I’m surprised you are not as solemn as I.”

He was silent for so long she wondered if she’d offended him somehow. At length, he found his voice.

“In truth, Mara, I… I have wanted to marry you for weeks now… I have had time to consider the weight of my choice,” he said carefully.

“Those are very pretty words, Malavai,” she said with a smile. “And here I worried that I was perhaps the latest in a string of ladies you have bedded with such a promise.”

That last sentence was said teasingly, but he blushed a deep red and for a long moment would not meet her eyes. Mara sat up and took his hands in hers.

“Darling, I was joking. I know you would never engage in such deceit,” she said, all humor gone from her voice.

His hands tightened as she gripped his chin gently and turned his eyes back to hers.

“Truly, Malavai, I am not questioning your honor.”

He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to hers.

“I know,” he said quietly.

They sat like that for a few moments before Mara spoke again.

“As much as I enjoy wearing your stolen clothing, dear, perhaps I should get ready for the day.”

She was relieved at the light chuckle that was his response to the statement.

“As much as I enjoy seeing you in my stolen clothing, I suppose you’re right.”

He rose and took her hand.

“Your things are in the blue room. This way,” he said, leading her toward one of the sitting room’s doors.

Instead of opening into the hall as she anticipated, the door opened directly into another dressing room, this one empty. Malavai led her through the far door and into another bedroom.

There was a delicate feel to the décor: light rosewood furniture and crown molding against warm, cream-colored walls. A lovely tapestry depicting a night sky, in shades of ink blue and grey, hung on one wall. The rosewood bed was made up with a coverlet that was white overlain with a fine deep blue lace. The curtains were of the same fabric as the coverlet. The rug under the bed matched the tapestry: a collage of deep blues, silvers, and yellow in a distinctly Dathomiri style. Mara recognized the satchel sitting on the writing desk as hers.

She stopped short.

“The blue room is…”

“The countess’s chamber, yes,” Quinn said, his voice so studied in its nonchalance it only highlighted his nervousness. “It has been empty for the past two years, since my father died.”

“You were very sure of yourself last night, it would seem.”

“It was the most convenient room,” he protested. “I could not force you to traipse across the house to dress for the day.”

Mara turned to look at him, not bothering to hide her mirth.

“Don’t fret, Malavai. Such confidence becomes you.”

His mouth fell open.

“You are going to be the death of me,” he sighed, reaching for her hand and raising it to his lips. “There is a maid assigned to this room who can help you dress if you need it.”

“I do think I can manage on my own, Malavai. But thank you.”

She shooed him back through the dressing room and closed the door, a bemused smile on her face.

***

“You are Lady Thrask, yes?”

Mara turned from the conversation she was having with Vette and found herself looking down at a pile of bright red hair, ornately arranged and held in place with large, lacquered pins. She looked further down and met a pair of hazel eyes and a knowing smirk.

“Of course you are. The only sith in the room; who else would you be?” The woman looked Mara up and down appraisingly. “You’re rather short for a sith. Interesting.”

Mara raised an eyebrow; the other woman’s head barely came to her shoulder.

“And you are?” She asked.

The shorter woman spoke as if Mara hadn’t bothered to open her mouth.

“Walk with me, Lady Thrask.”

Without waiting for an answer she turned and strode toward the doorway of Lady Thanaton’s drawing room. It took Mara a moment to realize her mouth had dropped open. Vette stepped up beside her.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“I have no idea.”

“I like her,” Vette declared.

Mara turned a frosty gaze on her friend.

“You better run along; you’ve been summoned, your grace.” Vette’s violet eyes twinkled with suppressed mirth. “At least she won’t get far on those tiny legs.”

“You are awful and I don’t know why I put up with you,” Mara replied, a smile creeping across her face.

“Because I’m delightful, that’s why.”

Mara squeezed Vette’s arm and followed the mystery woman out the door. The red-haired woman stood a few paces up the hall. Her pale skin glowed against her gown, black silk shot through with thread of silver. It was in a Horusetian style: a fuller skirt than was fashionable in Dromund Kaas with a close-fitting bodice that left her pale arms completely bare. Instead of gloves, a complex bracelet wound its way up half her forearm, a spiral of silver and rubies.

Despite the richness of the gown, it was completely utilitarian; the skirt was broad enough for complete freedom of movement and the folds in the heavy fabric could hide any number of blades. Indeed, fabric reinforced with threads of various metals was a staple of Horusetian fashion specifically because the heavy fabric became ideal for concealing weapons and served as decent lightweight armor when the need arose.

Mara had no doubt the other woman wore at least one other weapon aside from the dual-purpose pins in her hair. Mara relaxed her hands, reassured by the weight of the knife on her thigh and the shorter dirk in one of her soft boots.

“I almost didn’t recognize you as sith, Lady Thrask, given that absurd pink monstrosity you’re wearing. Are you trying to appease these idiots or have you truly been absorbed into the Kaasian hive mind?”

Mara growled and closed the distance between them in one long stride, stopping well within the woman’s personal space, forcing her to crane her neck to meet her gaze. She gripped the hilt of her knife, her skirt baring her leg from ankle to hip.

“I am happy to demonstrate for you just how sith I am,” she said in a low, deadly calm voice.

To her shock, the other woman burst out laughing, her face centimeters from Mara’s.

“Why do tall people always think that looming will work?” She took a step back, her body still shaking with laughter. “Still, this is a relief. I worried they had completely tamed you.”

Mara relaxed slightly, letting her skirt close around her knife. She still had no idea who this madwoman was, but she clearly hewed to sith social customs, which meant there would be no bloodshed. For now.

“I am not easily broken, Lady…?”

The woman drew herself up to her full height and inclined her head. “Kryn Sartoris, Lady Nox.”

Understanding dawned. Of course; House Nox was the youngest noble house in Horuset, founded during the King’s War by a former slave who’d fled the Kaasian royal household. The woman’s story and personality both charmed much of Horuset’s elite. That, and a desire to spite the Kaasian king, led to the Tsitsarai creating Envexa Sartoris the first Lady Nox and gifting her with lands and enough coin to build her own estate. It had been one of the Tsitsarai’s last acts; mere months later she was slain in battle and left no heirs, the first step in a chain reaction that led to Horuset’s humiliation and defeat. Even so, House Nox returned the Tsitsarai’s generosity tenfold, fighting savagely against the Kaasian invaders. Houses Nox, Vowrawn, and Thrask had been the last to admit defeat.

Horuset had fallen, but House Nox remained, its mistress gaining a reputation for blunt honesty and an almost preternatural stubbornness. Within ten years the first Lady Nox succeeded in badgering several noble Kaasian houses into renouncing slave labor, Balmorra among them. Envexa Sartoris’s descendents were reputed to be no less outspoken and obstinate.

Mara allowed herself a smile and curtseyed.

“I am honored, Lady Nox,” she said, and raised a self-deprecating eyebrow.  “Even half-tamed, as I am.”

Lady Nox motioned for Mara to follow and they began walking up the hall.

“Oh, hush. What was I supposed to think, you spending more of your life in this cesspool than you have in your homeland, and arriving to find you wearing a gown that is the physical manifestation of self loathing?”

Mara smoothed her gown, annoyed. “This may come as a shock to you, Lady Nox, but I have had to pick my battles these past fifteen years. My attire is not something worth fighting my uncle about every krething day.”

Still, she found herself looking at Lady Nox’s gown, a marriage of elegance and function that reminded her of the gowns her mother used to wear, and feeling more than a little homesickness and envy. A few more months, she told herself, and she could wear as many sartorial markers of her heritage as she wished.

“Fair enough,” Lady Nox said. “But all that is quite aside from your alleged betrothal to a Kaasian earl who, if rumor can be believed, has a larger stick up his arse than is typical even for these dullards.”

Mara pressed her lips together and blushed. “I do not think that is any of your business, Lady Nox.”

“Such prim modesty. Why, Lady Thrask, it would appear Earl Straight-Laced is rubbing off on you,” Lady Nox said.

Mara, unable to ignore the challenge in the other woman’s voice, turned and met her gaze. “Yes, well, fortunately the action has been both reciprocal and intensely pleasurable.”

Mara did not let herself dwell on the fact that it had also been rather intermittent in the weeks since their first night together. Oh, Malavai had escorted her home on a number of occasions, but he seemed oddly reluctant to spend the night together. The two times they’d done so since that first had both started with him seeming to battle with himself before surrendering to his need for her. In some ways that made the resulting passion more intense, but Mara did not understand why the cycle existed at all.

“Is it truly? I met the man in Council chambers yesterday. He is pretty enough I suppose, in an extraordinarily Kaasian sort of way, but he and Lord Marr are so well-matched in boring pedantry I can’t imagine taking either to my bed unless I were having trouble sleeping.”

“I cannot speak for Lord Marr, but Quinn has… hidden depths to him, Lady Nox.” Mara chuckled. “Though you are not entirely wrong; the exertion has indeed led to better sleep.”

The other woman raised one red eyebrow. “Interesting. One does have to watch the quiet ones, I suppose.”

Mara smiled and they walked in silence for a moment. Lady Nox led her into a deserted library and closed the door.

“Lady Nox, as entertaining a conversationalist as you are, I doubt you sought me out purely to test my worthiness as a sith or ridicule my choice of lover.”

“No indeed. Well, no that’s incorrect; I _am_ here to chide you for forgetting your heritage, though it seems you have done better here than expected.”

Mara frowned. “There are expectations?”

Lady Nox snorted. “Of course there are. The head of one of the largest noble houses in Horuset has been held hostage for fifteen years. There are expectations and concerns about what sort of duchess we will be getting back.”

Mara turned that over in her mind. So absorbed had she been in surviving, in hanging onto as much of her heritage as possible and getting home, she had not considered how her fellow Horusetian nobles might view her situation. She considered mentioning her correspondence with Tremel, but decided against it. Horusetian though she may be, Mara had no inkling as to whether the other woman was trustworthy.

“Lady Nox, I can only assure you that, whatever my attire and whomever my lovers, I have clung to my heritage as much as I can. What little power I hold has been used in the service of my homeland and I am trained as well as I can be without an actual master. I want nothing more than to go home and take my place at the head of my house and continue to serve as I can.”

“I believe you,” the red-haired woman replied. “As I said, you have done better than expected. That stunt you pulled with your zersium miners earlier this year was brilliantly done.”

“I did not know Vowrawn confided so much in you,” Mara said tartly. “I would have preferred he at least notify me first.”

Lady Nox laughed. “Don’t glower at me so, your grace. Vowrawn has taken me into his confidence because he trusts me. I will not reveal your secrets. I don’t pay many compliments, so be grateful to be among a very select group of people. At any rate, I gather from Vowrawn your assistance is why I am here at all.”

“So you are leading the Sith squadron to Corellia.”

“Indeed. There are ten of us; we’ve been training for the past fortnight. We’re to integrate with an elite ground force commanded by a Major Ovech. Do you know him?”

Mara shook her head. “Not personally. He and Lord Quinn have been friends since their time at Carida. The earl speaks highly of Major Ovech.”

“For whatever that is worth,” Lady Nox muttered. “This brings me to my second reason for seeking you out. Lord Vowrawn says you are in need of a master to finish your training. I confess I did not truly believe him until you threatened me just now.”

Mara winced. “What gave it away?”

“That you apparently need to undress yourself to access your blade. Don’t misunderstand, the view was quite distracting,” Lady Nox’s eyebrows twitched upward suggestively, “but your actions imply it was a decision made of ignorance and not out of a desire to use those well-shaped legs to your advantage.”

Mara frowned, firmly ignoring the blush that was spreading across her face and down her neck.

“Then where…?”

The red-haired woman took one of Mara’s hands and pressed it to her side, above her waist. Beneath her hand, Mara felt the hard outline of a knife hilt and blade.

“The bodice is better, your grace.” She looked Mara up and down. “Though Kaasian fashion is uniquely ill-suited to the task, so I suppose cannot blame you too much for the poor choice if this is what you insist on wearing.”

Mara’s fingers slipped into a disguised fold in Lady Nox’s gown, sliding upward until she gripped the hilt of the knife. Her eyes widened and she felt a smile creep across her face.

“That is rather ingenious,” she breathed. “I had no idea.”

“Horusetian fashion is a marvel.” Lady Nox paused, her hazel eyes meeting Mara’s. “You’re rather forward, your grace.”

Despite her words, Lady Nox’s voice held a hint of approval. Her hand cradled Mara’s elbow, her grip carefully neutral, as if she were waiting to see what she would do next.

“You did make a point to tell me you found my bare legs distracting,” Mara reminded her.

The shorter woman laughed. “That was not really the main thrust of my argument, but it could be, if you’re interested.”

Mara sighed and reluctantly released the hilt of Lady Nox’s knife and took a small step back. Lad Nox raised an eyebrow, whether in surprise or amusement, Mara could not determine. She took a breath and sternly brought her racing heart under control.

“It is not a lack of interest, Lady Nox, but a matter of prior commitment,” Mara said softly.

“As you wish, Lady Thrask. I do hope your tame earl knows how much you are willing to give up for him.”

Mara laughed. “My word, you do not lack for confidence do you, Lady Nox?”

“I have a clear-eyed view of my value, your grace,” Lady Nox replied. When Mara continued to laugh she gave a longsuffering sigh. “Such impertinence. At any rate,” she said, emphasizing every word crisply, “Lord Vowrawn has asked me to recommend masters to you so you may take up your training again. Though if you continue to laugh at me I may simply forget to do so.”

Mara’s eyebrows shot up and her levity vanished. Less because of the other woman’s good-natured threat, and more in surprised the offer was made at all. Whatever she may have expected - and indeed, Lady Nox defied all expectation - she had not expected such an offer.

“I thank you, Lady Nox. I should be grateful if you could provide a list of names. I,” she paused. “I will not be able to begin anything while in my uncle’s household - he is bound to notice - but I would like to begin as soon as possible after I return to Pesegam.”

“Certainly. I’ll have a list of names sent to you.”

“Please have it delivered to Gorinth House instead of my uncle’s home. I doubt any of my correspondence leaves or enters my keeping unread.”

Lady Nox nodded. “Of course, though I feel bound to point out you are placing an enormous amount of trust in your Kaasian lover and his household staff.”

Mara shrugged. “Lord Quinn has earned my trust, and even if he hadn’t, I have precious few allies outside of my uncle’s household.”

The other woman offered Mara a shallow bow. “I must leave; we depart Kaas City early tomorrow to join Ovech’s unit in Ziost. I am pleased we have become acquainted, Lady Thrask. I will keep you apprised of our progress as I can.”

Mara curtseyed in return. “The pleasure has been mine, Lady Nox. Good hunting.”

“And one last thing, your grace.”

Mara inclined her head.

“Do burn that gown; it is not doing you any favors.”

Mara rolled her eyes, but the door closed behind Lady Nox before she could offer a retort.

As much as Mara insisted to herself that Lady Nox’s opinion on her sartorial choices was irrelevant, that did not stop her from visiting a dressmaker the following week to order several gowns in Horsetian fabrics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to erunamiryene for graciously lending me Kryn. Kryn is my favorite snarky inquisitor and you should absolutely read her on her home turf in Chaos and Opportunity: http://archiveofourown.org/works/3265439/chapters/7121186
> 
> The Sith origin myth that Mara summarizes as foreplay (okay that's a hilarious sentence) is an amazing story written by tumblr user FluffyNexu. You should read it here: http://fluffynexu.tumblr.com/post/153608286722/semper-draca-commission-for-fluffynexu


	13. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinn's mother and sister have returned to Sobrik, leaving him free to entertain Mara as often as they wish. Their first morning alone at Gorinth House is exhilarating, to say the least. This is PWP that happens to exist in the confines of this story.
> 
> Or: a post on Tumblr was inspiring and my hand slipped and I had to write a sex scene. It didn't fit anywhere in the actual plot, so instead we have this lovely little somewhat outside-the-plot gem. The post in question: https://riajade01.tumblr.com/post/155614346974/aliyamirat-because-b-saw-these-while

It was early morning. She was clad in a clean day dress, adding the last pin to her hair when she heard the knock on the dressing room door. She called an entrance, and Malavai strode in from the sitting room, fully clothed and ready for the day. He wrapped an arm around her waist from behind and rested his chin on her shoulder, their eyes meeting in the vanity mirror. When she let her body relax against him, she could feel his arousal.

“Good morning, Malavai,” she said with a smirk.

He smiled back, somewhat shy, but pressed his lips to her neck.

“I want you,” he whispered against her ear. “Here, now, clothed as you are.”

He continued kissing her neck. When his lips found the ridges at the top of her spine, only the first two accessible above the neckline of her dress, she shuddered. She covered his hand with hers, lacing their fingers together tightly over her hip.

“And why is that?” she asked, her breathing already shallow.

“I want to mark you, as you did me.” His confidence faltered slightly. “If you agree, of course.”

She turned to meet his gaze directly. “I do agree, so long as it can be covered with normal clothing.”

He nodded. “Of course; I would not do you such a discourtesy.”

She claimed his mouth in a deep kiss. “Then you may do as you wish, Malavai.”

“As you command, your grace,” he murmured.

He grabbed her shoulders and spun her back to face the mirror, then shoved her face down onto the top of the vanity. The surface was blessedly empty save for a few leftover hairpins, one of which dug into her cheek.

A rustle of fabric, and then cool air caressed the backs of her thighs and her exposed ass. Even prone as she was, she could see his reflection in the mirror, the primal hunger on his face as he looked down at her. He licked his lips and met her gaze.

“I do not think I truly understood insatiable lust until I met you,” he said calmly, running his hands over her, teasing her exposed flesh mercilessly until she moaned and pressed against him. “I’ve been unable to think of anything else this morning.”

Mara smiled, spread her feet wider and rose onto her toes, well aware of what that did to his view of her backside. “I would apologize if I were in any way contrite, dear.”

He chuckled and disappeared from the mirror when he knelt behind her. Half a second later she felt his breath on her, and then his tongue teasing across her opening. She closed her eyes and moaned low, the sound unnaturally loud in her ears, echoing off the vanity and the mirror. He continued, teasing and then bearing down on her clit with a flat tongue, until her legs shook with the effort of staying upright. When he slid his fingers into her, she convulsed, already teetering on the edge of climax, and then she plunged over, waves of pleasure wracking her body as she shuddered and gasped.

She felt his lips on the backs of her thighs, kissing first one and then the other, and he stood, his hands already working at the buttons on his pants. She straightened slightly to help, but his hand flashed to her back, shoving her back down.

“I did not say you could move,” he growled as his cock sprang free.

She held her tongue, but raised an eyebrow at him. He met her gaze, his eyes cold and arrogant, and kept it as he grabbed her hips, readying to hilt himself in her.

“I love that you cannot resist me, Malavai,” she purred. “I’ve never had such power.”

He narrowed his eyes and froze, the head of his cock perfectly positioned at her entrance, teasing them both.

“Aren’t you an insolent thing this morning.” His tone was stern, lecturing, but the wanton half-smile conveyed his approval eloquently. He made a tsking sound. “The saucy prattle that falls out of that lovely mouth… what am I to do with you?”

Mara grinned and reached down to grip his cock, rubbing it against her wet clit. He groaned, his hands squeezing her hips in a vice-like grip as he held her against him.

“We both know the answer to that question, Malavai.”

“Perhaps.” His voice was still calm, but just ragged enough to betray how hard he worked to keep his lust in check.

“But I know you, my dear.” He pushed into her fractionally and pulled away again, his lips twitching in a knowing smile when she gasped.

“I know every centimeter of this glorious arse.” He smacked her playfully and then ran his hands over her ass, his fingers teasing downward along to either side of her cleft and back up to squeeze her firmly. A tiny, high-pitched “oh” escaped her and her hands curled into fists on the vanity table.

“Every sensitive spot you have.” He slid his fingers inside her, a low, quiet “yes” rumbling out of him when his fingertips found the spot he referred to and her hips bucked. “I know every sound you make, Mara.”

He pulled his fingers out of her and she whimpered, trembling with need. The whimpers turned to a wordless cry when he stepped back from her entirely.

“I know precisely how much power I have.”

Their eyes met in the mirror. She pushed herself up, her body aching intimately for him, but he shoved her back down.

“Are you ready to behave like a lady?”

Mara pressed her lips together, hating him for phrasing it that way; hating herself for wanting to immediately acquiesce. He began tracing maddeningly slow circles around her clit, never quite touching it. She sobbed in frustration.

“Are you?” he asked again.

“Yes,” she hissed softly. He leaned over her, pressing his cock against her, one hand sliding into her hair to pull her head back gently.

“I cannot hear you, dearest.” His voice was a low growl, his lips brushing her ear.

“Yes,” she moaned. “Yes, I will behave. Just please, dear gods, fuck me.”

“Ask politely.”

Her knees nearly buckled with lust even as she squeezed her fists tighter. The smug bastard. She unclenched her jaw and forced her voice back to something approaching courtly disinterest.

“Please, my Lord Quinn, may I have your cock inside me.” Her resolve faltered, the last few words ground out through clenched teeth, a definite note of sarcasm in the request.

He chuckled, the low sound sending a wanton shiver through her body.

“Hardly civil, but it shall suffice for now,” he said. “We shall have to work on your manners later.”

He grabbed her hips and slammed his cock into her. She cried out, and he gave her a feral smile as he began to ride her. She gripped the back edge of the vanity tightly and met his thrusts feverishly, all thought gone save for her need to prolong the sensation of him moving inside her.

His sharp gaze began to soften. Mara felt a feral smile of her own as she watched his eyes roll back in his head and he groaned gutturally with pleasure. She chuckled and his eyes snapped down to her, the cruel glint back.

One hand still gripping her hip painfully, he moved the other to her lower back, caressing the ridges at the base of her spine.

“Oh gods, Malavai,” she gasped, arching against him.

He pressed his hand into the small of her back, holding her down, his fingers continuing to tease the sensitive flesh as he slowed down, drawing out the pleasure of each thrust until every muscle and nerve in her body was stretched taut.

“Malavai, I’m-”

She cut off with a cry when he grabbed her hair and yanked her head back.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

She fought to hold his gaze as her body shook apart, shrieking with every convulsion that tore through her. He growled encouragement as she continued to shake, then suddenly his hand tightened in her hair and the encouragement became incoherent curses and pleas. His brow furrowed and he groaned her name as he spilled into her, his hand shifting from her hair to her shoulder as he grasped her to keep himself upright.

He collapsed atop her, one arm around her waist, his breath hot against her ear. After a few moments she spoke, her voice weak but teasing.

“Darling, I am not complaining, but I don’t seem have been marked in any way.”

He chuckled and pressed a kiss to her ear, their eyes again meeting in the mirror.

“You may fix your hair and straighten your dress, but that is all.” He straightened and they separated. “Do you understand me?” His tone was stern.

Her inner thighs were wet, the warmth spreading down to her stockings. Mara’s heart thudded as the implication of his words hit her. She pushed herself upright and let her skirt fall back down around her.

“I understand,” she breathed, turning to face him, her hands gripping his waistcoat as she fought to steady herself.

He took her in his arms, the gesture almost courtly, and placed a chaste kiss on her lips, pulling back forcefully when she tried to press his mouth open. He shook his head and chucked her under the chin.

“You must not be greedy, your grace. Finish getting ready. My driver will take you home.”

He turned and strode out of the room without looking back.

 


	14. Retreat and Regroup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Kaasian strategy for Corellia is executed, with predictable results. Mara delves more deeply into Kaasian politics, and Duke Baras issues an ultimatum. It's almost that time, my dears. *sobs*

_ Dear Lady Thrask, _

_ As I’m sure will be reported in the newspapers, we have taken Corellia. It was almost easy, to be honest. Ovech’s forces staged a series of raids on Republic supply lines and scouting posts; we slipped past easily in the confusion and performed our role in this incursion without incident. The main army arrived a day after we began wreaking havoc within the city walls. The Corellian governor was rather adorable; he swore vengeance and fire and “you’ll never get away with this” ‘til the end. I was almost sorry to kill him; such blind resolve and weak threats might have made for diverting entertainment, but alas there cannot be two governors of Corellia and Lord Vengean has arrived to claim that office. _

_ And, of course, we do not lack for entertainment. Quite aside from appeasing the Corellian populace, Republic forces have staged raids on our only supply line daily, and have sent several feints against the city walls, testing our defenses. If we are to hold here, constant vigilance is required.  _

_ I must say that I have been rather unexpectedly impressed with Major Ovech. He has treated me with due respect and deferred to my expertise on the sith unit’s capabilities. We have worked extremely well together. He is, also unexpectedly, rather diverting in other ways as well. _

_ I may possibly be revising my opinion of your Earl of Balmorra, but only just. At the very least his respect for Ovech indicates his head is not entirely up his arse. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Lady Nox _

***

_ Quinn, _

_ As of this writing, we have held Corellia for exactly three weeks. To be frank, this is longer than I had hoped, and our supply line and defenses remain in astonishingly good condition despite daily tests from the enemy. Quinn, I cannot believe it has taken Dromund Kaas a century to recognize the skill of our Horusetian kin. They are a sight to behold, stunning and ruthless in battle. Nox has begun training my own men in sith styles of hand-to-hand combat, or rather, one of the sith styles, for there appear to be at least two distinct forms, possibly more that I cannot discern with my untrained eye. Truly, without her expertise and the ferocity of her fellows, this offensive would have been far more costly, with a less favorable result.  _

_ Despite everything Nox has brought to our force - and she has brought more than I can say - I cannot predict how long we will be able to hold here. Our lines have held, but only just. It is only a matter of time before the Republic amasses enough of a force to dig us out. Until such time we will endure, of course, as a symbol of Kaasian might and stubborn resolve. If nothing else, this incursion and our occupation here have stunned the enemy; they truly did not think it possible for us to carve a path so deeply into their territory. They will remember this even if they do retake the city. _

_ Vengean rules the city with an iron fist. He has executed numerous public officials and instituted a curfew. Wherever he goes within the city he leaves trembling common folk in his wake. His severity is more intense than seems necessary, but I am a soldier, not a politician. Whatever information he may be privy to that I am not, his regime has not earned us any friends amongst the local population. If and when the Republic stages an all-out attack, we may possibly face fighting from both within and without. Vengean does not seem bothered by the proposition, but Nox and I have begun to prepare for such an eventuality. _

_ Knowing that you are working on our behalf as best you can gives me a bit more hope for our future prospects than I would have otherwise. I pray you will remain steadfast in your efforts on that front, my friend, and be well. _

_ -Ovech _

 

Mara stood at the vanity in the countess’s dressing room. She and Malavai had arrived at Gorinth House directly from a birthday dinner Vowrawn had held for Marr. Despite the apparent good intentions, Marr had seemed less than thrilled by the gesture. (It seemed Vowrawn had engaged in some deception or other in order to ensure Marr’s attendance.) Fortunately Vowrawn’s geniality meant the evening had been pleasant despite the guest of honor’s stubborn reticence.

Lady Quinn and Georgiana had returned to the country a fortnight ago, leaving the Gorinth House empty save for Malavai. Upon arriving they had adjourned straight to their rooms. Mara smiled as she unpinned her hair and unwound it, laying aside the string of pearls that had been woven into the knot. Malavai had seemed more relaxed after his family decamped to Sobrik; they had been together more often in the past two weeks than they had in the month before that. The countess’s dressing room now held a familiarity, and an astonishing number of visceral memories, that it had not before. Indeed, Malavai had made a point to begin accumulating those experiences the morning after his family returned to the country.

As Mara picked up a hairbrush from the vanity, Malavai strode through the door from the sitting room, having shed his tailcoat and waistcoat, and reached for her hairbrush.

“May I?”

Mara relinquished it to him, letting her eyes drift closed as he ran the brush through her dark hair, his fingers gentle against her scalp as he worked through the various knots that had formed as a result of her coif.

“My hair doesn’t get half as much attention from anyone else, Malavai,” she murmured after a time, opening her eyes. Her hair was completely free of tangles at this point, but he continued brushing it until the dark locks shone in the lamplight.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m here to make up for that lack,” he admonished her.

She laughed. “And so well, too, though I must confess: brushing my hair is only the second most valuable service you provide.”

She reached behind her to run her hand over the front of his breeches, and was rewarded with his sharp gasp at her touch.

“I have not spent all this time on your hair only to render it unkempt again,” he said in mock dismay, his hands already sliding around her waist to draw her against him.

“Then you shall have to refrain from touching it, dear.”

She plucked the hairbrush from his hand and placed it on the vanity, then pulled him into the sitting room. He smiled rakishly when she pushed him onto a sofa and climbed into his lap.

“Hmm, this does seem to be an agreeable arrangement,” he conceded, teasing kisses along the neckline of her gown above her breasts as he reached for the ties on her cream-colored gown.

A knock at the door cut off her reply.

They stood hurriedly and Malavai answered the door. A footman handed him a note and withdrew.

“It’s from Marr,” he said absently as he scanned the short missive. His blue eyes widened and he looked up at her sharply. 

“Our force has retreated from Corellia.”

Mara crossed to him quickly, placing a hand on his arm. It was not an unexpected development; indeed they had grown more expectant of such an announcement the longer Kaasian forces occupied the city. Even so, her stomach flipped with the same anxiety she saw in Malavai’s clenched jaw.

“Do we know how orderly it was?” She asked.

He shook his head. “No, it seems word has come from a scout who was dispatched as quickly as possible. The man rode three horses to death making it to our lines to say the retreat was begun under heavy engagement.” He met her gaze. “This news is three days old.”

Three days. Nox, Ovech, Vengean and their force, if it had survived the retreat, should be nearly back to Ziost by now, to say nothing of the string of scouts Ovech would have sent ahead with fresh intelligence. Additional news could be trickling in to the Council anytime in the next day.

“You must return to the Council chambers,” Mara said. It was not a question.

Malavai nodded. “I expect Lord Marr will want an adjutant on duty at all hours to receive news.” He paused. “You are welcome to stay here if you wish.” 

“I should go see my uncle. I know he has been in regular contact with Vengean; it’s possible he has additional intelligence to share.” 

Malavai yanked the bell pull and instructed the footman to have Ghost saddled and his carriage made ready for Mara. As he was issuing instructions, Mara returned to her dressing room and hastily gathered her hair into a low bun, then retrieved her cloak from the closet. She walked into the sitting room as Malavai entered from the opposite side, once again fully dressed, buttoning his overcoat. 

He took her cloak and settled it around her shoulders, his hands lingering on her for a moment. 

“This is not how I’d hoped tonight would go,” he said softly. 

Mara smiled and turned to face him, slipping her arms around his neck. “No, nor I.” She pulled his lips to hers, trying to pour as much of her affection and lust into the kiss as possible. His arms went around her waist as he responded in kind, all heat and possession.

She pulled back, gasping when his teeth raked her lower lip. 

“Sadly, duty calls us both,” he said, his lips turning up in a little smile.

“Indeed.” 

There came another knock on the door. Malavai gripped the back of her neck and pressed a final hard, short kiss to her mouth. 

“I’ll send word if my uncle knows anything more,” she said. 

They drew apart, Malavai opening the door and motioning her through. 

The ride back to Duke Baras’s home was short. Mara hurried through the bottom floor of the house to her uncle’s study. A crack of light shown under the door, so she knocked and waited for him to call an entrance. Baras looked up in surprise when she entered the room.

“I thought you were spending the evening… elsewhere,” he said, a hint of disdain in his voice. 

Mara resisted the urge to roll her eyes. His dissatisfaction with her choice of suitor had only grown more tiresome now that she knew it was a lie.

“Lord Quinn received word that our forces have retreated from Corellia. He returned to the Council, and I thought you would be interested in the news.”

Baras sat back and regarded her for a moment with his dark eyes. If he was surprised or concerned about the development, he hid it well, Mara thought. 

“That is unfortunate, but not unexpected,” he said finally. “Did you gather any information as to the circumstances of the retreat?”

“No. We’ve only gotten word from the most advanced scout, though I expect more news will continue to trickle in over night, and I’m sure Vengean and at least Ovech or Nox will arrive within the next few days.”

Baras nodded, his eyes gazing past her. “You’re most likely correct, Maranel.” He steepled his fingers as he continued to stare, lost in thought. “We may need to fill Lord Vengean’s Council seat quickly. I must send word to Ravage.” 

He focused on her again, and Mara worked to keep her face neutral. It did not surprise her to see her uncle circling Vengean’s hypothetical corpse, precisely - her uncle was nothing if not opportunistic - but she had thought he would maintain at least a modicum of hope for Vengean’s survival. The two men had been friends and political allies for decades.

“Thank you for bringing this to me, Maranel. I have much to attend to.”

Mara inclined her head and left the room. 

***

“My lords, it is with profound sorrow I must tell you Lord Vengean is dead.”

Ovech’s words rang out through a Council chamber that had become oppressively silent. He and Lady Nox stood in the center of the room still dirty and rumpled from travel. They had arrived in Kaas City in the early morning of the second day after news of the retreat had arrived and come to Marr’s offices first thing. From there it was straight to the full Council as soon as its members could be gathered.

They both looked exhausted; Quinn was unsure when they’d last slept. Ovech’s arm was in a sling and Lady Nox moved carefully, as if she were protecting a broken rib.

“How could you let this happen?” Thanaton demanded.

Lady Nox’s exhaustion disappeared in a flash and she whirled, bringing to bear a fury far larger than her physical body.

“He was targeted, Thanaton. The initial attack on the city was made up entirely of an elite force, soldiers calling themselves ‘jedi’. Their combat style is similar to ours, and just as effective.” 

“And so they bested you, and Lord Vengean paid the price. Perhaps we should have looked elsewhere for our elite force.”

Lady Nox’s smile sent a shiver down Quinn’s spine.

“You should have consulted Lord Vowrawn on sith customs before impugning my abilities in public, Thanaton. You have earned yourself a very personal display of my skills.”

“How dare you issue such threats against members of this illustrious Council-”

“Enough, Thanaton,” Marr interrupted, looking between the councilor and the tiny sith woman who’d threatened him. “Lady Nox, it is not customary for members of this body to settle disputes through violence.”

“A pity. If it were, Vengean may have survived.”

Thanaton slammed his fist down on the arm of his chair and opened his mouth, his invective forestalled when Marr held up a hand.

“Explain, Lady Nox.”

“As I said, Vengean was targeted specifically. When I got to him there were three of these jedi standing over his body.” She raised an eyebrow. “I dispatched them, naturally. They were good, their training similar to sith styles, but not exceptional. Anyone with a modicum of training would have resisted them. Vengean clearly had none, for by the time I arrived there were already two knives buried in his gut. And,” she reached into the folds of her skirt and produced a wicked, curved knife, “the blades were poisoned, to ensure success.”

Marr sat back and exchanged a glance with Vowrawn.

“Vengean’s death was an assassination. An attack directly on this Council,” Vowrawn said softly.

“Major Ovech, is it possible the enemy slipped a spy into our ranks?”

Ovech fiddled with his sling, considering. “It’s not impossible, my lord, but I do not think it would have been necessary. Lord Vengean was rather… free… with the knowledge of his identity and position. Our scouts caught several Corellian civilians sneaking to Republic camps.” He paused, his lip twisting. “As much as I would not want to believe it, it is possible someone made it through to spread the word.”

The chamber was silent for a long moment.

“We will shelve this speculation for now,” Marr said finally. “Major Ovech, Lady Nox, continue with the debriefing.”

***

Several hours later, the Council adjourned. Vengean’s death notwithstanding, the retreat from Corellia had been as orderly as possible with an elite team of warriors harrying their forces during the entire march back to Kaasian lines. 

Ovech made clear that Lady Nox and her squadron had proven invaluable; the sith, partnered with those of Ovech’s unit who had received training from the them during the occupation, had almost singlehandedly kept the jedi from overwhelming the main army. All told, the Kaasian forces lost a quarter of their men. Without sith support, Ovech estimated their losses could have easily doubled.

The sith sacrificed half their squadron in the name of Kaasian security but had taken down thrice their number in jedi. The main force, from Ovech on down to the newest private, considered Lady Nox and her cohorts heroes. Once stories of their actions spread, Quinn had no doubt most in Kaas City would no doubt share that assessment. 

Quinn escorted Lady Nox and Ovech from the Council chambers, emerging into the hallway to find Mara pacing the wall opposite the door. Quinn’s eyes widened when he saw her. The cut of her gown matched Lady Nox’s: form-fitting bodice and a full skirt. Some of the smaller touches were different - Mara’s neckline hugged her neck up to her chin, and her long sleeves were closer-fitting than Lady Nox’s. Even so, the Horusetian influence was obvious. The fabric was a deep grey spiderwebbed with copper threading and, despite covering her from neck to toes, hugged her torso indecently. Even as he stared, he worried how Baras would, or had, reacted to the change in fashion.

Lady Nox laughed with delight as she looked Mara up and down. She reached out as if to embrace the taller woman but, to Quinn’s shock, instead let her hands roam down Mara’s sides, lingering on her hips. Mara’s red skin darkened slightly with a blush, but her lips turned up in a lascivious smile Quinn knew all too well.

“It’s nice to see you can take criticism, your grace.” Lady Nox said with a knowing smile. “Please tell me that awful insult of a dress has been reduced to ash.”

Mara laughed. “Not as such; Lady Thanaton was so effusive in her praise of the gown, I sent it to her with my compliments.”

“So you  _ are _ sith after all,” Lady Nox said with an approving nod. “Lord and Lady Thanaton are a matched pair, I take it?”

“Very much so.” Mara paused and looked between the sith woman and Ovech. “It’s good to see you both safe, if worse for wear. Is Vengean in any better shape?”

“Vengean is dead,” Quinn said quietly.

Mara’s amber eyes widened. “I see,” she said after several moments. She turned to Ovech and Lady Nox.  “I’m sure you both require rest. Lady Nox, do you have a house in the city?”

Lady Nox snorted. “Of course not, why would I?”

“I thought as much. We’ll have a room made up for you at Gorinth House. Malavai, I’m sure your carriage can be summoned immediately, yes?”

Mara met his gaze. Not, he noted with amusement, seeking permission for the use of his house and carriage, but merely confirmation of her instructions.

Suddenly her words caught up with him: a single room, for both Nox and Ovech. Quinn turned, his gaze travelling between his friend and Lady Nox for a long moment. 

“I’m sorry, Xandir, are…. Are congratulations in order?”

“For what, our intimacy?” Lady Nox raised a red eyebrow at him. “If so, then yes, we shall accept your good wishes.”

Quinn felt his mouth fall open in shock. From beside him he heard a strangled sound that was most likely Mara holding in laughter.

“Forgive me, Lady Nox,” He ground out. “I merely meant that Kaasian custom demands-”

“Do you really think you have a leg to stand on here, old friend?” Ovech looked pointedly at Mara, who was laughing openly now.

“You really shouldn’t scowl so, dearest, your friend is right.”

He glared at her, but she simply smiled and patted his arm. “You are adorable,” she said.

“That’s one word for it,” Lady Nox put in skeptically.

“Malavai, you and Ovech should go see to the carriage. I must speak with Lady Nox.” 

Quinn opened his mouth, then shut it again. He gestured to Ovech. “Shall we?”

Ovech clapped him on the shoulder with his good arm and followed him down the hall.

***

Mara watched Quinn and Ovech leave, then turned back to Lady Nox. 

“My uncle wants Vengean’s Council seat,” she said without preamble.

“How can you be sure?”

“It was one of the first things he said to me after I gave him news of the retreat.”

Lady Nox’s hazel eyes narrowed. “What precisely did he say?”

Mara paused, taken aback by the question, thinking back.

“I believe it was, ‘we may need to fill Vengean’s Council seat quickly’,” she responded. “Why do you ask?”

Lady Nox looked away, her thoughts clearly focused inward. “No reason, not yet.” She focused again on Mara. “I’m not particularly surprised by your uncle’s bald ambition; why are you telling me about it?”

“You should stand for Vengean’s seat.”

Mara felt far more satisfaction than she should have at the shock that flashed across Lady Nox’s face.

“Do you bear a particular hatred for the Council, Lady Thrask?” 

Mara smiled. “Not a  _ particular _ hatred, no.”

“Then why, of all the beings in this nation, would you suggest I take that seat? You must know I would hate them nearly as much as they hate me.”

“That is precisely the reason, Lady Nox. You would upend the status quo even more than Vowrawn does, and you would be a second representative for Horuset. I should not need to tell you my uncle being on the Council would be demonstrably bad for our people.”

Lady Nox regarded her for a long moment, her skepticism still clear on her face. “There has never been a woman on the Council. Why should they start with me?”

“You’re a Kaasian hero now, Lady Nox,” Mara said sweetly.

The shorter woman twisted her lip in disgust. “That is an awful thing to say to someone, your grace, especially someone you’re asking for a favor.”

“You should not eschew a title that gives you power here, my lady,” Mara replied earnestly. “At the very least Marr will give you fair consideration, which will inspire others to do the same. Your combat exploits aside, you are not Duke Baras. Enough of the Council is skeptical of the power he’s amassed to fear giving him more, even as that same power keeps any sane Kaasian from challenging him. You are an alternative they cannot ignore.”

The silence stretched, Mara unconsciously holding her breath, hoping Lady Nox did not suspect the amount of self interest Mara was displaying here.  Everything she said was correct; her uncle on the Council would have grave consequences for Horuset and gift him with enough power that he would be second only to King Vitiate himself in influence. But more than that, to Mara’s mind, was that his ascension to the Council would make it exponentially harder for her to stand against him. 

“Your ancestor was the first human to found a Horusetian house,” Mara said quietly. “She challenged Kaasian ideas on slavery a century before anyone else dared to. It is only fitting, don’t you think, that a Lady Nox would be the first woman to serve on the Council.”

Lady Nox’s hazel eyes snapped up to hers. “You realize I know that you are manipulating me, yes?”

Mara opened her mouth, whether for apology or denial she hadn’t yet decided, but the other woman cut her off.

“How infuriating for me you also speak sense while you try to maneuver me into standing against your uncle.” She raised an eyebrow. “Say what you will, Lady Thrask, your sith mother is not the only parent whose family you’ve taken lessons from.”

“I think we can do without insults, Lady Nox,” Mara spat in reply.

“It was not an insult, you grace, but a simple statement of fact. How you choose to feel about that fact is entirely your own affair.” She favored Mara with a smug smile. “Surely you would not eschew a characteristic that gives you power in this mess of a nation.”

Mara’s eyes narrowed as Lady Nox shifted to look past Mara up the hallway.

“Ah, yes, your prim lover is returning, no doubt with news on when his carriage will arrive. Be a dear and inform him I’ve gone to see Marr and will join Ovech when I’m finished.” Another mischievous grin. “Let him know we’ll not sully his pure home too much with our licentious ways.”

With that she turned and swept up the hallway, her dark skirts swirling in her wake. Mara stared after her even after she felt Malavai stop next to her.

“You really shouldn’t scowl like that, my dear. It is most unladylike.”

She shifted her glare to Malavai, whose blue eyes were sparkling with tightly-controlled mirth. 

“Lady Nox seems to like you a great deal.”

“Are you jealous, Malavai?”

“Should I be?”

Mara fought back a mischievous smile but failed. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Malavai raised a dark eyebrow. “Would you like me to put her and Ovech in the countess’s chambers?”

Mara studied him for a long moment. “I am to tell you Lady Nox has gone to see Marr and will join Ovech when she’s finished,” she said finally. Her smile grew wider. “And that she and Ovech will contain their activities to the room you assign them. Although I suppose that may be moot if you indeed put them in my room.”

Malavai’s smug smile flattened immediately to a scowl and Mara laughed.

“Do not try to best me in impertinence, Malavai, for you will always lose.”

***

Quinn stood along the wall of the Council chambers with the other adjutants and Council staff. He had not brought anything with him to the meeting - nothing for note taking, no reports or other information that would be passed to Marr when needed. Indeed, today’s meeting was occupied by a single vote, and truly no additional information was needed. Quinn regretted that fact; as it was, he had nothing to occupy his hands, and instead stood at a near-perfect parade rest, his hands clenched tightly behind his back. 

“Lord Thanaton, how do you vote?” Marr asked

“I would have Duke Baras fill Vengean’s seat,” Thanaton answered.

“The votes have been cast,” Marr said formally. If he was disappointed in the Council’s decision it did not show in his voice. “Duke Baras, this body requests your service in filling the seat left vacant by the untimely and heroic death of Lord Vengean. Will you accept?”

Quinn exhaled quietly, although the knot in his belly did not ease. Mara would be disappointed, he knew, and Councilor Baras would present a new danger to them both. 

“I will of course, Lord Marr,” Baras replied, bowing his head slightly. “I am honored to serve my country thus.”

Baras’s tone was gracious, but the glances he shot toward Lady Nox, standing a few feet to his right, were anything but. The vote had been close - far closer than it should have been, given Baras’s political connections and Lady Nox’s gender and status as a newcomer to Kaasian politics. Seven to four in favor of Duke Baras. Quinn knew Baras was already calculating how he would repay Marr, Vowrawn, Mortis, and Decimus for their support of Lady Nox. 

“Lady Nox, you are dismissed.” Marr said as Baras took his seat. “This Council recognizes your willingness to serve and may call upon you in the future.”

The woman’s laughter rang out through the room. 

“I’m sure you will, Lord Marr. I cannot say I am overly disappointed or surprised by this outcome. I would not expect this body to acquire the courage to challenge its myopia just yet.”

“Perhaps we are simply unimpressed by a woman whose mouth will no doubt see her gutted in the street,” Thanaton rumbled ominously.

She laughed again. 

“Oh, Thanaton, you need not have said anything; I know I intimidate you.” She inclined her head fractionally to Marr. “I shall leave you to your games, my lords.”

She turned on her heel and strode from the room.

The meeting broke up and Quinn returned to his office. He’d only just sat down at his desk when the door flew open and Duke Baras entered the room, slamming it behind him.

“I grow tired of waiting for you to fulfill our agreement, Quinn,” he said.

Quinn stood but forcibly kept his face calm. “Your grace, I-”

“No more excuses. I know my niece had a hand in the absurd stunt Marr pulled, allowing Nox to stand for my seat. Were you involved, as well?”

The question held a world of threat. Despite his best efforts, his hands tightened to fists.

“I was not, your grace. Lord Marr did not see fit to share his plans with me. If I may,” he said carefully, “I do not think Lady Thrask would plot against you in that way.” 

It was a lie, of course; he had no idea if Mara had been involved in Lady Nox’s decision to stand for Vengean’s seat, but such a move was not out of character for her. Baras clearly shared that opinion, for he snorted.

“For a man who has spent months trying to woo a woman who already belongs to him, you know startlingly little of her character.” He eyed Quinn appraisingly. “Although it has been made clear these past months her character is not something you’re interested in maintaining. I am surprised, Quinn. When you began to dally with her I thought you were ready to make good on our deal. I thought you had more honor than to drag this out for months and soil her reputation as you have.”

Quinn flushed, a combination of anger and shame. “Lady Thrask wishes to delay, your grace. As I can entail her holdings to you whenever I wish, I did not think it mattered whether we married before or after her birthday next month.”

Baras slammed his fist down on Quinn’s desk. “She is crafty, Quinn, how can you not see that? Give her that time and she will surely find a way around your rights to her holdings. Today only proves that; a word whispered in one or two ears and she nearly had a woman,  _ a sith woman _ , on the Council. You must do it now, before she reaches her majority, or you will not be able to make good on our bargain, mark my words. And that,” he leaned closer, his black eyes holding Quinn’s, “would be most unfortunate, would it not?”

Quinn met that gaze, proud of how steady he was. He remained silent. After a moment, Baras straightened, exiting Quinn’s personal space.

“Let me make this perfectly clear. You will carry my niece to the altar if necessary within the next two days, and you will take your wife in hand to put a stop to this nonsense. If you cannot deal with your fiancee, Lord Quinn, I will.” Baras smiled slowly, the malevolence in the expression twisting Quinn’s insides. “I will deal with her and inherit her holdings, and our bargain will be revoked in full. Do you understand me?”

Quinn swallowed, his attempts at calm melting away. 

“I understand, your grace.” His words were clipped, but his voice shook. He wondered dimly if Baras knew just how thoroughly efficient his threats were. “We are attending the opera tomorrow evening. I will ask her then.” At Baras’s raised eyebrow, he inhaled sharply. “I will insist, if necessary.”

“I’m glad we could come to an arrangement, Quinn. I rather like you.” Baras’s genial tone was somehow more chilling than his calm threats. “Bring her to my home the morning after the opera and we shall toast your new life together.”

Quinn inclined his head silently, not trusting his voice. Baras held his gaze for another heartbeat, and then turned and left the room, leaving the door ajar behind him. Quinn crossed the room to close it, his hands beginning to shake now that he was alone.

Mara had been perfectly clear in her desire to wait until her birthday. He had no idea how to change her mind, but he would. He had to.  
  


Baras smiled to himself as he heard Quinn’s office door click shut. He’d meant every threat, but Quinn could not know how reluctant he was to act on them. Oh, Baras had little compunction about killing the girl if he had to, but doing so would raise questions even he would be hard pressed to answer. At the very least he’d likely lose Draagh as a scapegoat, and Baras had far too many uses for the man to sacrifice him lightly. No, far better to dispose of his niece through marriage to a noble quite beneath her station, a noble who would live out the rest of his life in Baras’s debt.

Despite the slight wrinkle of Lady Nox’s challenge to his Council seat, his plans were proceeding nicely. It was so pleasant to see decades of effort finally come together.

***

The following evening, Quinn sat opposite Mara in his carriage, his hands folded stiffly in his lap so he would not fidget. Fortunately their carriage was next in line to drop its occupants at the doors to the Kaas City Opera House. He nearly dove out of the carriage when the door opened, belatedly remembering to turn and offer Mara his hand.

She eyed him with amusement but took his hand as she stepped out of the carriage. Quinn realized with a start her hands were bare; her red skin contrasted sharply with his white gloves. She drew her lightweight cloak around her against the spring chill and slipped her hand into the crook of his arm.

“You seem agitated, Malavai,” she said softly, nodding a greeting to several ladies they passed. 

“I have been remiss in my attendance this season,” he replied. “I am merely excited about the performance.”

He realized uneasily that only a few of the nobles they passed returned Mara’s greeting; most stared at them, stone-faced, before turning to one another to whisper. He felt Mara’s hand tighten on his arm as they entered the grand hall of the opera house. Quinn cast a glance at her. Her face was deep in the hood of her cloak, but he could see her frowning slightly as she regarded the various Kaas City elites gathered in the hall, most politely pretending not to stare.

“Lord Quinn,” Vowrawn inclined his head and hurried toward them. “My dear, would you mind horribly if I spoke to the earl for a moment?”

“Of course not,” Mara replied slowly. “Malavai, would you like me to check your hat and gloves with my things?”

Quinn nodded, handing the items to her as she hurried away. Quinn turned back to Vowrawn, the nervousness he’d worked so hard to quell all evening rolling through him anew. The sith man’s face was serious - far more serious than Quinn had ever seen it.

“You must have observed your fellows’ reaction to your presence this evening,” Vowrawn said. When Quinn nodded, he leaned in and lowered his voice. “I thought you should know, some rather scandalous rumors about you and the duchess seem to have taken flight this afternoon. I know gossip is the primary form of diversion in Kaas City, but I’ve never seen something spread so quickly.”

Quinn’s heart thudded in his chest. “What rumors, precisely, my lord?”

“That you and Lady Thrask have dallied for months now with no intention of marrying, as a start,” Vowrawn said. “Of course, that on its own is not precisely news. No, the prurient variant is that, indeed, she has no plans to marry at all, and will instead take you back to Pesegam next month as her…” Vowrawn trailed off, uncharacteristically reluctant to say the words.

“As her plaything,” Quinn finished, his voice an angry growl. 

“Yes, quite,” Vowrawn nodded. “I hope you will believe me that there are those of us who have too much common sense to believe such drivel, but Kaas City society has never been known for its common sense.”

Quinn nodded curtly. Indeed, the more salacious a rumor, the more likely the Kaasian elite would cling to it. He was fairly certain he knew the answer to his next question, but asked it anyway.

“Lord Vowrawn, do you have any idea how these rumors started?”

Vowrawn smiled faintly. “No one can know the origin of these things for certain, of course. But several of my staff seemed to have been passed this information by Draahg. I’m sure the man must have some sort of vendetta against the duchess; surely Duke Baras would not smear his own niece’s reputation so viciously.”

Quinn had no reply for that; he was, in fact, certain Baras had done precisely that. Vowrawn studied Quinn intently and then nodded.

“I see, I may have been mistaken in my assessment.” His yellow eyes shifted to look over Quinn’s shoulder, and his lips compressed into a thin line. “Oh dear. Ravishing as she looks, Lady Thrask could not have chosen a worse ensemble for this evening.”

Quinn turned to follow Vowrawn’s gaze, and gasped.

Mara had chosen a consummately Horusetian gown for the evening, red silk a shade or two darker than her crimson skin shot through with thread of gold. The bodice was as close-fitting as the other Horusetian gowns she’d worn, but the skirt of this gown hugged her hips tightly before broadening around her knees to exaggerate an hourglass shape. Indeed, the fabric was close enough in hue to her skin that, from a distance, it looked as though she were clothed only in a fine gold mesh. The high neckline of the gown disappearing under a broad golden collar, the metal finely wrought with scrollwork and dotted with gems. Her arms were completely bare from shoulder to fingertips save for a broad gold cuff around her right bicep and a corresponding cuff on her left wrist. On her forehead rested a diadem he presumed marked her as the Duchess of Pesegam.

She was stunning. He could not tear his eyes from her as she crossed the hall to join him, a knowing smile playing across her lips.

Unfortunately, the same could be said of every other pair of eyes in the hall. Anyone who had heard the rumors Baras released into society would see the foreign decadence of Mara’s gown as evidence of their truth. 

Mara stopped next to Quinn and looked between him and Vowrawn. 

“Something is wrong,” she said. 

Vowrawn nodded. “Your grace, I think it would be best if you let Quinn escort you to your box immediately. He can explain there.”

Her frown deepened, but she looked at Quinn for confirmation and, at his slight nod, took his offered arm.

***

Mara thought she was used to stares. She thought she was used to seeing other nobles titter and whisper as she passed. Growing up as, more often than not, the only sith woman in any given house, drawing room, or ballroom, she had been the target of more than her fair share of gossip. 

She had not, however, experienced either stares or gossip in quite the same volume she endured in the five minute walk from the grand hall of the opera house to Malavai’s family box. He closed the curtain behind them and drew her aside, into the recesses of the back of the box.

“Someone has been spreading rumors about us,” he said quietly. 

Mara cocked her head. “Surely they could not have come up with anything other than what is already common knowledge,” she said. She could not think of anything that could reasonably be said about their relationship that would invite such a sudden hostility from the Kaasian elite.

She felt her eyes widen as he explained. Someone - and she was fairly certain who - had been very creative. 

“I see,” she said slowly. “It is not our promiscuity that is offensive, but my alleged dominance.” She shook her head, a small laugh escaping her despite her best efforts, and met Malavai’s gaze. “I always knew the Kaasian ego was fragile, but this…” She laughed again.

Malavai did not return her mirth. 

“This is serious, Mara,” he said.

The gravity in his voice silenced her laughter, worry taking its place. Mara could only assume Baras was spreading these rumors to speed a wedding between her and Malavai along. Looking at his narrowed eyes and the tension in his body, Mara suddenly wondered if her uncle had miscalculated, spreading tales that made her too toxic for Malavai to continue the relationship..

“Malavai, surely you do not believe there is any truth to this fiction at all,” she said, reaching for his hand. She relaxed somewhat when he did not pull away.

“Of course not,” he scoffed, squeezing her hand. “But these tales have the potential to turn ugly, more so than simple lewd whispers about our private life.” He smiled, the expression not reaching his eyes. “The Kaasian ego is indeed that fragile.”

“What do you want to do?”

He paused, looking out at the opening of the box. 

“It may be advisable to leave,” he said finally.

Mara snorted. “I will not be chased out of an opera house by mere gossip.”

“You would not be the first, nor will you be the last.”

Mara narrowed her eyes and raised her chin.

“Let them do their worst.”

Malavai sighed, relenting. “As you wish.”

An hour later, the curtain closed on the first act of the opera. Mara remained in her seat as the rest of the audience stood and milled about, seeing to personal needs or seeking refreshment. Her back was straight, her chin raised proudly, a facade she maintained by virtue of stubbornness alone. 

She doubted anyone in the boxes surrounding theirs, or in the gallery below, had seen much of the opera at all, so focused had the attention been on them. From the seats below several choice insults had been yelled as the act wore on. At one point Mara had unconsciously reached for Malavai’s hand, only to have a woman in the next box over mutter, “tendriled bitch”, her brown eyes glaring daggers over her fan.

Never in her life had Mara wanted anything more than she wanted to scoop those brown eyes out of their sockets. Her hands had itched for the knives concealed in her bodice. They still did, truth be told.

“Mara.”

She turned her head toward Malavai’s voice. He glanced pointedly toward the back of the box and its relative darkness and privacy. She nodded fractionally and waited a few moments after he moved in that direction before following. 

“Are you alright?” He asked as she slumped against him, her head on his shoulder. She nodded without looking up.

She did not fear for her reputation, not truly. But keeping her poise throughout, and resisting the urge to pull her knives and work out her frustration, had been exhausting. 

Malavai had one arm around her waist, the other was stroking her hair gently, soothing her without disturbing it too much. 

“I’d like to go home,” she said quietly.

“We should wait until the intermission is over. The crowd outside will be thinner when the second act starts.”

She nodded again.

She maintained her silence all the way back to Gorinth house, letting Malavai maneuver her through the opera house hall, into his carriage, and to their rooms. When he turned from closing the door of their sitting room she threw herself against him, shoving him against the door with both hands on his chest. He grunted in surprise and then her mouth was on his, hot and insistent, her hands making quick work of the buttons on his waistcoat.

His arms went around her, and for several long moments he matched her passion, but then his hands slid up to her shoulders and he reluctantly pushed her back. She growled in protest and tried to pull him against to her.

“We need to talk,” he said gently.

“I do not want to talk,” she replied, changing tactics and leaning into him slowly, her lips curved in a smile she knew he could not resist.

“Mara, stop.” He pushed her away from him forcefully.

She stumbled back several steps, embarrassment and annoyance warring within her. Malavai walked into the center of the room, as if to ensure she could not corner him again, stopping several meters away with his back to her.

“I’m fine, Malavai. Nothing was said to me tonight that I have not heard before.” She took a few tentative steps toward him, trying to keep her voice light. “You needn’t fear for your reputation, dear. I will be sure to marry you  _ before _ we go to Pesegam.”

He head jerked toward her.

“I’m sorry?” 

“You cannot be surprised that I would want to return home. I want you to see where I come from. I want to walk the grounds and feel the crisp, cold air on my skin..” She stared past Malavai, seeing Pesegam again in her mind’s eye, the red cliffs and blue ocean, the artfully disheveled gardens and beds of thornroses. “I miss it, Malavai. It has been fifteen years.”

She focused on him again. He stared at her in silence for a long moment, his eyes searching her face. He hesitated, then seemed to gather his courage and stepped forward.

“Mara, we must marry. Now.”

She froze. “What?”

“Please,” he said softly, closing the distance between them and taking her hand. “I understand why you wanted to wait. But the rumors, the invective, will only grow worse the longer we delay. I cannot allow that.”

Mara stared down at her hand in his and firmly pushed aside the anger that flashed through her at that last sentence.    


“Do not,” she said, her voice carefully calm, “presume to defend my honor unless I ask you to do so, Malavai.” She turned her face up to meet his gaze, her jaw clenched. “I don’t care what bored Kaasian nobles say about me; we know what we are to one another.

“I care,” he replied evenly. “I care what people say about you.”

“And why is that?” she snapped, wrenching her hand from his. “Are you so worried you have been tainted by associating with a,” she paused, her lip twisting in disgust, “a  _ tendriled bitch _ such as myself?”

“Of course not,” he bit out. “I am yours, by your side, no matter what.”

“Then why? Why do let them  _ bother  _ you so?”

“Because I love you, you stubborn woman!” 

The anger in his voice jolted her back a step. She narrowed her eyes and took two steps forward, refusing to be cowed by his words or his anger.

“If you love me so, then  _ do as I ask _ . Do not seek to protect me when I don’t need it.”

“The gossip and slurs hurt you,” he said, his voice tightly controlled. “Don’t you dare tell me it doesn’t; I saw you tonight. I do not doubt your strength, I only wish to save you completely avoidable anguish.”

When she remained silent, glaring at him, he continued. “Is the prospect of marrying me now so unappealing you would rather face what you did tonight?”

She rolled her eyes. “You know better than that. I love you, gods alone know why. Please, I just…” she trailed off. “My birthday is in a month. That is not so long to wait.”

“Mara, please.” She frowned at the desperation that shook in his voice. He gripped her upper arms painfully. “I beg of you. It will only get worse in that month, and I cannot bear the thought of you enduring such rancor. I cannot do that to you.”

“The answer is no, Malavai,” she said, her voice tired, and shifted out of his grasp. He opened his mouth and she held up a hand. “Do not ask me again.”

She studied him. His body was tense, his hands clenched. His blue eyes were wide with fear.

“Why are you doing this? What has changed?” She reached for his hands. “Something is wrong, beyond what happened tonight.”

“I cannot-” He looked at their entwined hands and then back at her face. “Please, trust that I am acting out of love.” He closed his eyes. “I cannot bear the thought of hurting you.”

“Then don’t. Respect my wishes.”

“Would it were that simple,” he said quietly, leaning his forehead against hers. Mara stroked his hair. 

“It really is, Malavai. I know this evening was awful, but we will persevere and be stronger for it.”

After several long moments he straightened, his jaw set in determination.

“Forgive me?” He asked

“Of course.” She smiled. “I apparently love you, which makes it easier.”

He laughed shakily. “I must confess I had not planned to shout those words at you.”

“If our arguments end in you shouting endearments at me, I think we will be fine,” she replied. Her tone grew serious. “Still, you were right; it  _ does _ hurt.” The exhaustion she’d felt at the opera house returned in a rush. “Would you mind horribly if we went straight to bed?”

He squeezed her hand. “Of course not.” 

***

The following morning, they were back in Quinn’s carriage, trotting toward Baras’s home. Quinn’s mind felt sluggish; he’d not slept well. Mara had almost immediately fallen asleep in his arms, but he’d lain awake for hours after, stroking her hair and listening to her breathe. Trying to formulate a plan to  _ keep _ her breathing.

Clearly forcing her into marriage early was not an option, not without manipulation or shows of force Quinn could not stomach, even knowing what hurt he had already committed to doing her. That left two options: reason with Baras, or get Mara out of his clutches before he could make good on his threats.

The childish part of Quinn’s brain told him the latter was really the only option; Baras would tear up the marriage contract, leaving Quinn conflict free, and Mara would never have to know. Quinn’s rational brain and his honor demanded the former; he’d signed a contract. Whatever else he was, Malavai Quinn was a man of his word. Even when he desperately wanted to break it. Even when it meant hurting the woman he loved.

He would offer to sign the entailment documents today and backdate it upon their marriage. The legality of that was nebulous, but with the power Baras had acquired with his new Council seat, no one would dare question it. That should appease the duke. He had no illusion whatsoever that Mara would be happy with the arrangement, or that she would forgive him his deception. But she would be alive and safe, which was his primary goal right now. Everything else: finding a way to live with one another after what he’d done, earning her forgiveness… that would have to be addressed later.

The carriage stopped and a footman handed them down.

Mara looked at him questioningly; she had been under the impression he would simply be dropping her off.

“I have some business with your uncle,” he said.

He opened the door and let Mara precede him, and walked straight into her back. She’d stopped three steps inside the door. Quinn steadied himself and looked up.

“Maranel, Lord Quinn,” Baras beamed at them. “I understand I am to congratulate you both.” 


	15. Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinn signs the entailment. Mara... reacts. 
> 
> Content warning for descriptions of fighting and injury.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit goes to tumblr users @semper-draca and @literary potato for helping me make the fight scene a thing that largely works, as opposed to the flail-y mess it was in my first draft.

“Maranel, Lord Quinn,” Baras beamed at them. “I understand I am to congratulate you both.” 

Mara stared at her uncle in confusion. How did he… she looked over her shoulder at Malavai. He was staring at Baras, too, but his eyes were narrowed, one hand resting on her waist in way that felt protective, if a touch possessive. She took a step forward, shaking him off.

“I don’t have the pleasure of understanding you, uncle.”

“I see.” He was silent a moment. “Come into my study, both of you.” 

He motioned toward the door for them to precede him. Mara obeyed, unsure of what else to do. She glanced at Quinn, frowned, and looked again. He’d gone pale - she had not known that was possible, but any semblance of color that had existed on his face or lips had fled.

“What is going on?”

“Draagh, bring in those documents we discussed.”

The door to the morning room opened and her uncle’s tall, foul-tempered secretary entered carrying several pages of parchment and laid them on the desk.

“I see you could not do as I asked, Lord Quinn. These are the documents entailing Pesegam and all its associated holdings to me. You will sign them now.”

“What?”

Baras and Draagh turned toward her. She could not keep the incredulous laughter from bubbling out of her as she laid a protective hand on Malavai’s arm.

“Why in the world would he do that? He has no legal authority over my holdings, anymore than you do. And as to the other matter,” she smiled sweetly. “I think you will find, dear uncle, I will be a far more worthy financial adversary than you ever imagined.” She laughed again. “You must be truly desperate if-”

Malavai’s hand covered hers.

“Stop,” he said quietly. She looked at him in surprise. His color had not returned, but his lips were set in a thin, determined line, like a man preparing to have a bone broken in order to reset a partial fracture. He placed his hands on her shoulders, his eyes searching her face desperately. 

“I’m so sorry. You have to understand I had no choice. My mother and sister, Balmorra, they-”

She took a step back, out of his reach, her gut twisting with horror. “Please tell me you didn’t agree to this.”

“I’m afraid he did, Maranel.” Mara looked at her uncle. “He agreed to marry you and I agreed to settle the debts he owes me.” He gestured toward one of the documents on his desk.

“When?”

Malavai stared at his boots for a long moment, then looked up to meet her gaze. “The day before my visit to the Citadel over the summer.”

Mara felt her mouth fall open. Her heart jumped at what felt like irregular intervals, making her breath shallow. She combed through the blank fog that her mind had become, trying to for words, for action, anything.

“Quinn,” Baras said. “I’m waiting.”

Malavai walked with obvious reluctance to Baras’s desk.

“Please.” It was a whisper, but the room had fallen silent enough for her to be heard clearly. 

“Malavai, please. I don’t care what documents you have signed before this, just,” she took a breath, hating the subservience in her voice, the begging. “Just do not sign the entailment. He will have to go through the courts. It will give us time to plan, to… to find something.”

“And what will happen to Balmorra in that time?” His voice was detached, calm. “I cannot put my mother and Georgiana at risk. You said yourself you could not alleviate the debt in full, that the situation is dire. And were none of that true, I gave my word, Mara.”

“And your word to me?”

That cracked the careful facade somewhat. He hesitated, but then reached for a pen. 

“I’m sorry.”

Baras turned to say something to him, but the words were drowned out by the roaring of blood in her ears. A cold sweat blossomed on her flesh. 

_ She was ten years old, sitting in a history lesson with her tutor, when Tremel entered. The two men conferred in whispers for a moment, and then the tutor withdrew. Tremel knelt next to her chair and looked her in the eye. _

_ “Your Grace.” Maranel frowned. He’d never called her that before. “Your grace, there has been an accident…” _

_ The rest of the words were lost in that same roaring of blood. He’d had to tell her three more times before she could hear every word; three more times after that because the words were utter nonsense. Her parents were not dead, she was not the duchess of Pesegam; none of that happened in the world Maranel knew. _

The memory flashed by in the span of a heartbeat, leaving her sweating and gasping. That childish helplessness was the only explanation Mara had for what happened next.

She grabbed a decanter from the table next to her and hurled it at Draagh. She heard him yell as it shattered, the wet slap of whiskey splashing onto the floor. All that was background, heard at a distance.

She dashed toward the desk. 

The fireplace was just a few steps to the left. She was fast, she was strong. She was sith. All she had to do was grab both pieces of parchment and hurl them into the fire. It was such a simple, obvious plan.

A shadow moving across the desk was her only warning before a whiskey-soaked hand closed around her hair and yanked her backward.

Something in her snapped. 

She growled and threw her elbow up and back, felt a thud and heard his grunt when she made contact and his grip loosened. She whirled, ending in a crouch facing her opponent. Draagh smiled at her, a cruel rictus grin. His clothes were soaked with whiskey, a few small wounds on his face where the crystal shattered and sliced through his skin. 

“Show me some of that sith fire, girl,” he growled, and lunged for her.

Mara bellowed wordlessly and shoved his arm aside. Each of her fists thudded into his abdomen, sending a shockwave up her arms. He grunted with each impact and staggered back a step. The sound of their flesh colliding, the impact in her knuckles, stoked and soothed her fury at the same time. 

It felt good.

_ Fifteen years of living in fear. _ She growled and drove a knee into his gut.  _ Every humiliation. _ Her right elbow crashed into Draagh’s jaw.  _ Every attempt to erase her sith heritage. _ His head snapped back the other direction with a blow from her left elbow.  _ The unmitigated temerity to think she could not defend herself, that she would let them take everything from her without a fight. _ She slammed a foot into his groin. Draagh staggered back with a growl, then struck out with each first. She ducked under his arms and stumbled, narrowly escaping his right hook. 

She was breathing heavily, rage tinging the edges of her vision red. With another growl she struck again. Her left elbow connected with his face.

He caught her right arm in a vice grip and yanked her sideways. Pain burned through her lower back when his fist slammed into her. For half a second she went limp - unable to breathe or move - and he shoved her to the floor. She rolled, her mouth opened in a silent scream as liquid fire exploded in her lower back, boiling upward.

Her heart thudded in her ears. Feeling returned in a rush and she gasped. Her leg flashed out barely in time to ward off another blow. Draagh staggered back and she scrambled to her feet. 

He lunged at her again, his fist low and glinting. She frowned as the blow went wide, sliding along the outside of her torso. Dimly, she heard someone yelling - not her, for once - but ignored it. She smiled and pinned his arm against her body and smashed the heel of her hand into his nose as hard as she could.

He laughed as he staggered back, blood flowing from his nose.

It was only then that Mara saw the blade in his hand. It was wet with blood. Her blood. A line of wet heat lanced across her ribs. For a moment her mind went blank with panic as the pain of the cut built into a yawing ache - how deeply had he cut her? How much blood had she lost? 

In that second she was completely open. Draagh slammed his fist into her gut. She doubled over and staggered, her right hand going to the cut on her side automatically.  She looked up to see Draagh stalking toward her.

“Not her face,” Baras snapped. “She has a wedding to attend.”

Draagh smiled that cruel smile again. “As you wish, your grace.”

She tried to straighten, to breathe, to meet him with at least a modicum of dignity left. She was still hunched slightly and had only just begun to inhale when he grabbed her shoulders and drove his knee into her ribs, over the cut he’d inflicted. For the second time in as many minutes, her mind went white and blank with pain. 

A strangled cry echoed through the room as she crumpled to her knees, only remembering at the last second to throw a hand out to keep from falling on her face completely. Her breath came in quick, moaning gasps. She felt as if she were forcing each inhale and exhale, reminding her battered body how to function. She could feel blood pooling against the hand pressed to the cut on her side.

“Baras, that’s enough!” 

Malavai was beside her before he finished the sentence, trying to peel her hand away from the wound. She jerked away from him and forced herself to her feet, her breathing slowed slightly. 

“I will not cooperate,” she ground out, her voice an unrecognizable growl. “You will have to carry me before the justice minister in pieces. I will make such a scene even the easily distracted Kaas City nobles will be talking of it for years.”

“Mara.” Malavai’s voice was low and carried a hint of panic. She ignored him. 

“I thought you might say that,” Baras replied. “Have you not wondered where your ladies are?”

That cold sweat returned and bile rose in her throat. If he harmed them…. no, he wouldn’t, not yet. Not when he could still use them as leverage. 

Her uncle watched her process this for several long moments and then nodded. 

“I see I don’t need to explain any further. You will be married today, Maranel. Vette and Jaesa will remain safe in my care.”

He closed the distance between them. Bent as she was to hold the cut on her ribs, she had to look up to meet his gaze. He grabbed her chin roughly. 

“And you, my darling niece, will be nothing other than a model countess. You will not put a toe out of line and you will cease your ridiculous forays into politicking. Else I will not hesitate to turn one or both of your friends over to Draagh. Are we clear?”

When she said nothing, he nodded. 

“Quinn, take your fiancée to her rooms and tend her wounds. Draagh, make sure Lord Quinn has everything he needs to make her presentable.”

***

The walk to Mara’s sitting room was slow and silent. After she jerked away from him that first time, Quinn refrained from touching her again, watching with worry as she struggled visibly up every step and blood trickled slowly through the fingers of the hand pressed to her side. Draagh caught up with them as she opened the door to her sitting room and handed Quinn a large satchel.  

Inside the sitting room, he opened the bag on the table and sorted the materials he would need. 

“I will need access to the wound,” he said. 

She stared at him, and for one terrible moment he thought she would refuse, preferring to risk infection rather than let him near her. Then she was reaching up her back, loosening the form-fitting Horusetian bodice and leaving a smear of her blood across the light grey fabric. She pulled her left arm out of the sleeve, baring her left side and the full cut on her ribs. He winced when he saw the massive bruise on her lower back. The sound she made when Draagh delivered that blow… he shuddered but kept his voice businesslike.

“Thank you. Lie down on your right side.”

She obeyed, arranging herself on a sofa. He gathered the tools he needed and knelt before her. She did not look at him. The thick silence broke only once, when she grunted softly as he pressed an alcohol-soaked cloth to the wound to disinfect it. He’d stitched half the cut before he summoned enough courage to speak.

“I tried to wait him out. He threatened to kill you.”

She gave no indication that she heard him.

“I know I have harmed you, lied to you.” He had to pause in his work to still the shaking in his hands. “I do not deserve your forgiveness, but I will never stop working to earn it.”

She said nothing. He could not blame her, but hoped his words would help, in time.

He tied off the last stitch and reached for a pair of scissors to trim the excess catgut. She stirred.

“Are you finished?”

He examined the cut. The stitches were neat and the bleeding had slowed. 

“It needs bandaging, but yes.”

She sat up and slipped her arm back into her sleeve, still not looking at him.

“Get out.”

“I’m sorry?”

She looked at him then, the pain on her face sending his heart into his stomach.

“I said get out.”

“Mara, please-”

Her palm struck his face, silencing him. He gasped as pain seared through his cheek.

“You do not have permission to use my given name,” she growled. “Don’t you dare presume that you have any right to any kind of intimacy with me.”

She stood, staring down at him, her eyes haughty and cold. 

“I am the Duchess of Pesegam, no matter how much of my birthright you have sold to my uncle. You will address me as Lady Thrask or your grace, and you will obey my orders.”

He scrambled to his feet, his heart thudding in his chest. 

“Your grace, please.” The title felt wrong in his mouth after months of using her given name. “Let me bandage the wound before-”

“You will leave this room,” she said, the haughty calm faltering. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. She grabbed his arm and shoved him toward the door, her voice rising to a haggard shout. “Get out or I will show you just how sith deal with traitors.”

That she had struck him and threatened him with a no-doubt slow death should have terrified him, no matter how much he deserved it. In that moment, though, all he could feel was resignation - resigned to that fate if she saw fit to gut him in her sitting room, resigned to receiving her justified rage - and sympathy. Despite how her lip curled in a snarl, her eyes were wide, haunted. It took all he had not to reach out to her, to draw her close and give her the safety she needed to deal with her grief.

Had he not been the one to take everything from her, he absolutely would have. Instead he obeyed, slipping out of the room and leaning his forehead against the door for a moment, trying to slow his breathing. Panic would not help them right now.

Quinn spent the next several hours in the morning room on the ground floor of the house, the light airiness of the room an absurd contrast to his brooding. He saw Draagh pass by several times, always disappearing up the stairs that led to the family’s rooms on the second floor, sometimes pausing to speak to Lucas. It took three passes for Quinn to realize the man was patrolling, ensuring that both of Duke Baras’s prey remained safely caught. 

That realization only reinforced the conclusion he’d arrived at separately: they had to get out of Baras’s house. Quinn had no idea if Baras meant them further harm; on the surface, at least, he seemed to have everything he wanted from the transaction and had no need to press them further. By the same token, however, he did not necessarily need them alive, either. Either way, they needed more freedom of movement than could be found here, surrounded by Baras and his agents, if there was to be any hope of healing. Or any hope of regaining Mara’s holdings. 

Quinn did not have a large amount of hope on that last score, but he knew he would try. He sat down at the small writing desk and hurriedly penned two notes, then took the stairs down to the servants’ quarters.

Mrs. Halidrell was barking orders in the kitchen when he arrived, her voice cutting off mid-word when she realized there was a nobleman standing in her doorway. Past the kitchen, in the servants’ hall, several heads turned toward him, Mara’s maid among them. Given Zara’s chilly expression, and Halidrell’s narrowed eyes, it was clear news of the morning’s events had spread. Quinn was not in friendly territory.

Despite that, he relaxed somewhat; their anger meant they were loyal to Mara and so, hopefully, would be convinced to help him if it meant helping her. 

“Zara, may I speak with you?”

The woman sneered but rose to do as bid. He pulled her into a corner.

“Yes, my lord?” 

“I need your assistance; I need to get a note to the duchess, and one to my staff at Gorinth House.”

Her answer was to laugh in his face.

“You have some gall, coming down here thinking I’d help you. I’m afraid I’m otherwise occupied. Deliver your own letters. My lord.”

“Zara!” He caught her arm and yanked her around to look at him. “I deserve your scorn. But will you really let your mistress die for it?”

The woman stared at him. “You’re a melodramatic one, aren’t  you?”

Quinn pinched the bridge of his nose and pulled her back into the corner, lowering his voice. “Blast it, Zara, this house is not safe for her.” His grip tightened on her arm. “I need to get her somewhere safe and I cannot do that if you don’t deliver these kriffing letters.”

“As if she’d be safer with you,” Zara fairly spat at him.

“I was Baras’s pawn in this, nothing more,” he growled. “My role in harming her is over. Do you truly believe Baras is done doing so?”

The maid’s face softened slightly as she considered. 

“I will do as you ask. For my lady.”

“Thank you,” he said, his relief obvious in his voice. 

Mrs. Halidrell appeared in the hallway. “Give me the note meant for Gorinth House, Zara. I have a footman I trust to deliver it.” She eyed Quinn. “I do hope you are telling the truth, my lord. If we find you have harmed our lady again, Lord Baras will be finding bits of you in his stew for months.”

Quinn swallowed noisily. “I… I truly do not wish to harm her any further, Mrs. Halidrell.”

The cook eyed him. “I believe you. Doesn’t mean you’re not a bloody idiot.”

Quinn had no rebuttal to that. He returned to the morning room. As he passed the kitchen, he saw Mrs. Halidrell speaking earnestly to a footman.

***

Mara sat at her vanity, clad in a fresh dress. Kaasian style, this time, using the high waist and loose skirt to disguise the bandage on her ribs. Her back still hurt where Draagh struck her, now a dull burning ache instead of the fire it had been earlier. Her ribs ached both from the cut and Draagh’s knee. She expected the pain to linger for days at least. 

She found herself hoping the dress would meet with her uncle’s approval, that it was in line with what a model noblewoman would wear and thus keep Vette and Jaesa from harm. Her hands shook as she wound her hair into its usual knot, from a combination of rage, terror, and pain. She had to find a way to get Vette and Jaesa out of the Citadel. Even if she could accomplish nothing else, even if she were to remain stripped of her holdings for the rest of her life, she could not live with the constant threat to their safety.

She had no idea where to begin. As closely watched as she had been before, she knew her uncle would only double his scrutiny going forward. Any correspondence she sent would be searched and read thoroughly. She had managed to get a note to Pierce - Zara had delivered it - asking him to ride to Pesegam to warn Tremel of what had come to pass. The entailment could not legally go into effect until her birthday, but she doubted her uncle would wait that long. Zara reported that Pierce had several weeks of leave available to him and had agreed to do as she asked. In fact, he had already asked for, and was granted, leave to tend to a matter Vette had left with him just before Baras bundled them into a carriage out of the city.

But such notes would have to be rare to go unnoticed; any regular comings and goings of her friends or allies would be noted and watched closely. 

She finished with her hair and opened her jewel box to retrieve a pair of earrings. Sitting atop everything else was a stack of folded papers bound together with a deep blue ribbon. Malavai’s letters. 

After the first two stilted ones, they had kept up a regular correspondence despite being in the city together for the season. They were short notes for the most part, delivered by footman on days they did not to see one another. Malavai had indeed improved with practice; several of the notes were only a handful of sentences but had managed to make her blush deeply upon reading them.

Now, her stomach lurched when she saw them. All of it, every pretty word or well-intentioned awkward turn of phrase, had been a lie. A lie she should have seen, but instead willfully believed. Had she been so desperate for love and romantic companionship? Or had he been an excellent actor?

She picked up the letters and walked to her fireplace, lowering herself painfully to the floor before it and curling her legs beneath her. She opened the topmost letter, the most recent, dated a week ago.  

_ “I have not slept more than half an hour at a time since news of Corellia broke. Nearly strangled my valet when I came home today to find freshly cleaned sheets on my bed. (The poor man could not have known, of course.) Absent your company and the smell of your hair on my pillow, I am a poor wretch indeed. I am counting the days until Lady Vengean’s spring ball.” _

Mara growled and dropped the page into the fire. She watched, mesmerized, as the flames licked through the paper, dissolving its edges and eating through its center at the same time. Something eased in her as she watched the sheet curl in on itself and disappear. Without looking at it, she unfolded the next note in the stack and did the same, leaning toward the fire, her gaze rapt but unfocused. For a time there were no thoughts, nothing to intrude, even the pain receded in the back of her mind. There was only the repetition of motion - pick up a letter, smooth it into one large sheet, dip it into the flames, watch it burn down as if it had never existed. Reach for the next one. As her hands continued their methodical movements, her eyes never left the undulating beauty of the flames.

She started when she reached down and felt only her dress. For a moment panic gripped her and she clapped her hand over mouth to contain a wordless sob. It was gone. Their entire correspondence. Every word of affection he’d ever written her, reduced to a heap of ash. 

She stuffed down the regret she felt, smothering it with anger, willing herself to feel the pain in her body. Of course she burned it all. What use did she have for the stack of lies those letters represented? Even if he believed what he’d written, he clearly did not love her enough to stop this. To tell the truth.

The door to the hallway opened and Zara stepped into the room.

“Begging your pardon, your grace,” she said, curtseying when she rounded the sofa. “Lord Quinn asked me to give you this.”

Mara stared at the folded paper, torn between snatching it eagerly and telling the maid to toss it in the flames with the others. 

“I refused him at first, your grace,” Zara said, her brown eyes searching Mara’s. “He said it was a matter of your safety, else I would not have helped him.”

Mara frowned and took the note. It was blessedly short and to the point:

_ “Baras is having us both watched. I have ordered my carriage to be ready at the Palace of Justice after the ceremony. They will stop here first. Please pack your things and accompany me. I know you will not consider Sobrik your home, but it is safer than here.” _

Mara stared at the note for a long moment, then tossed it into the fire. Running away to the country felt cowardly, like she was letting her uncle win. But Malavai, fool that he was, was correct about one thing: she could not accomplish what she needed to here. From Sobrik, at the very least, she could send correspondence safely and plan without fear of being overheard by Lucas or Draagh.

One day, she vowed, she would move house of her own volition with more than a day’s notice.  

“Zara, please pack as much as you can in the next hour. Focus on my jewels, weapons, and Horusetian gowns first. Everything else can be replaced. Bring your own things as well. We will accompany Lord Quinn to Sobrik.”

Zara curtseyed and immediately hurried to the bedroom to retrieve her trunks. A knock sounded at the door, followed closely by it opening and Draagh poking his head into the room.

“Time to get hitched, your grace.”

***

Quinn stood in the ornate audience chamber of the Kaas City Palace of Justice. The room could seat hundreds, but today the only witnesses to the proceedings were Duke Baras and Draagh. The chamber was open to the public, however, and random passersby drifted in and out. That random churn had become more concentrated as word spread that none other than Councilor Duke Baras was marrying off his niece in a tiny and hastily-arranged ceremony.

To an outside observer, the tableau looked exactly like the sort of thing any good Kaasian patriarch would force in the wake of the tawdry tumors Baras had spread about them.

Quinn turned his attention back to the figure standing before him. Mara wore the same dress she’d worn the day she received him at the Citadel: white muslin with white embroidery, brilliant against her jewel-red skin and consummately Kaasian. 

The justice minister instructed them to join hands. Quinn looked at Mara questioningly, expecting reluctance or outright refusal. Instead, she listlessly lifted her hands, her amber eyes fixed on some point in space over his left shoulder. Her hands were completely limp when he took them.

Her weak, silent obedience was far more worrisome than anything else he had imagined.

Her voice was toneless as she repeated her vows. The minister frowned as he led her through the recitation.

The minister turned to Quinn. 

_ Do you pledge to share you life openly… to be truthful, in love… honoring her above all others…. _

The words were ashen in his mouth. He had violated those promises already. 

And yet, he found a certain strength in the words. Not because he was deserving of her hand, or because any part of him mistook this proceeding for anything approaching an actual marriage. No, in the recitation he found a manifesto, a guide for his future actions. 

He had no idea if Mara had even heard the words she repeated, let alone if she believed them. But he did. Going forward there would be nothing but her and his work to atone for what he’d done. He would love, shelter, and honor her for the rest of his life, and accept with dignity whatever conclusion she arrived at as to their relationship and his place in her life. 

He didn’t know if he could stop or reverse the entailment. But he would do everything he could to do so. 

The rest of the ceremony was lost to Quinn as he began laying plans for the coming days. Suddenly he heard, “You may now exchange your first kiss as a married couple.”

For the first time since they all packed into Baras’s carriage for the trip to the Palace of Justice, Mara’s eyes met his, keen and angry and clear in their warning. Quinn released her hands. 

Baras cleared his throat. 

Mara froze. She closed her eyes.

When she opened them again and focused on him, the fear they harbored stopped his heart. A model countess, Baras had said. Clearly consummating their marriage with a kiss was part of Baras’s definition of such. 

Mara placed a hand on his neck. When she kissed him, he could feel her lower lip trembling. His hand was on her arm, just above her elbow, before he remembered to stop himself. She flinched but did not pull away. Whether that was for the sake of their audience or because she found his touch in any way comforting, he could not say. She lingered with her face pressed to his. Her breath tickled his skin as she exhaled slowly, a clear effort to compose herself. 

When she pulled away, for a split second her eyes met his with some of their old warmth. Then the fear and anger were back. He released her arm and she stepped back from him. 

The minister announced them as Lord and Lady Quinn. He did not have to look at Mara to know how she felt about that. He pitied anyone who tried to address her by her new title.

Baras and Draagh followed them out of the main audience chamber. Quinn looked around, trying to find an excuse to separate from them without appearing overly suspicious. Baras saved him the trouble, coming to stand before them, beaming like a proud uncle.

“Congratulations, my dear,” he murmured to Mara, leaning down to kiss her cheek. From the way she stiffened, Quinn felt certain Baras had never done such a thing in the whole of their relationship. If he noticed, Baras did not comment. He merely pulled back and chucked her under the chin. “You will be a very happy woman, and an exemplary countess.”

Baras turned to Quinn and extended a hand, which Quinn took hesitantly. 

“Welcome to the family, Quinn. Now,” his eyes narrowed slightly, “I expect you will take your new bride home to Sobrik, will you not?”

“Indeed, your grace,” he said, proud of how steady his voice was. Did Baras have spies at Gorinth House? Or had he simply assumed Quinn would be looking for a way to escape? Or did he, for once, simply mean what he said? Having Mara out of his way would, indeed, be convenient. “I expect the staff at Sobrik will be eager to meet Lady Th-, the countess,” he amended when Baras raised an eyebrow.

“Of course, do not let me keep you.” He looked between them before locking eyes with Quinn. “This young woman is my only family, Lord Quinn. Do take good care of her.”

Quinn inclined his head, no longer trusting his voice. Mara’s eyes met his and she nodded and reached for his arm. He shifted to accommodate her, trying to contain his surprise. Outside the door, his carriage was waiting as ordered. He handed Mara in and, after his driver assured them the luggage had been sent ahead on a cart, stepped in after her.

***

“How long will this take?”

Malavai seemed surprised to hear her speak, for he stared at her for a moment before answering.

“The trip is just over two hours.”

She nodded and turned to look out the window at the buildings sliding past in the waning afternoon sunlight. Her body ached a little less, or perhaps she was simply becoming accustomed to the pain. As they wound their way out of the city, she heard him shift several times, and several intakes of breath that might have been the beginnings of a sentence, but if they were he swallowed the words. As they cleared the outskirts of the city, half an hour later, he seemed to summon his courage. 

“We must talk, your grace.”

“Believe me when I say we really do not,” she replied without looking at him.

“Please. I deserve your anger, Lady Thrask, but we must find a way to live with one another if we-”

“A way to live with one another?” She could not keep her incredulity out of her voice as she glared at him. “I do not want to find a way to tolerate what you have done to me.”

“What _do_ you want?”

“Drop it, Malavai, this is not a conversation you want to have with me right now.”

“We must have it,” he insisted. “I cannot begin to help you if I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I want nothing from you!” she roared. “Do you know what I want? What I have truly wanted for over a decade now?”

When he stayed silent she continued, lowering her voice only slightly. 

“I want to go home. My mother and my home were ripped from me in the same week and I have lived with that endless ache for fifteen years. Everything I have ever wanted, everything my mother and her forebears worked for, everything our house bled and died for during the King’s War, is gone.” She was fully shouting now. “Do you understand what that means? My house has stood for centuries and it has fallen on my watch. I have put my entire country and my dearest friends at risk. All because a stupid child believed the pretty lies dripping from a pretty Kaasian mouth.”

She stared out the window for a long moment before turning her glare back on Malavai.

“Which part of that, dear  _ husband _ , do you think you can help with?”

He sat stiffly, his face carved from stone. Convinced the conversation was over, Mara jerked her attention out to the countryside and the blood red sunset. 

“I did lie,” he said quietly after a time. She turned and met his gaze. His blue eyes were wide, earnest. “About my initial motivations for meeting you. About the nature of my business with your uncle. But everything that followed after was truth, your grace. When I said I loved you, when we-”

“Don’t do that. Don’t you dare act like our relationship was anything other than a charade.” Her heart clenched as she said it, but the feeling was quickly overwhelmed by pure, comforting rage. “Our first night together I offered to help you, to freely give you whatever I had to keep Balmorra solvent. You let me spin that lovely fantasy.” Her voice cracked but she forged on, “And then you took me to your bed.”

“Tell me, Malavai, what truth we consummated that night, and all the nights that followed after. Look me in the eye and tell me you believe what you received from me was honestly gotten.”

He looked away. Despite the grey twilight blotting most color from the world, she knew he was blushing with shame. 

“I did not…” he took a shaking breath. “I never thought to love you as I do. I thought initially that I had made a standard Kaasian arrangement. It was only over time, when my feelings for you grew and I came to know Baras’s true nature, that I realized the full extent of what I had agreed to. By then we had grown close and I could not stand the thought of losing you.”

“Yes, I can tell how difficult this has been for you,” she replied sarcastically. “How torn you must have felt, fucking me by night and conspiring to harm me by day.”

He had no response to that, nor had she expected him to. She turned back to the window. The sun had long slipped below the horizon; the world beyond the carriage windows and its lamps was ink black. There was nothing to see, but it she wasn’t truly looking at it anyway.

Her focus was inward, frantically trying to control the lines of thought flashing through her head. Picturing Pesegam without noticing how fuzzy the image was in her mind’s eye, how dated and most likely inaccurate. Wondering whether the fifteen-year-old memory would truly be her last glimpse of home. She squashed the question ruthlessly. Of course it would not be; she would fight this. Somehow. Even if she returned home only to die attempting to retake it, she would see it again. 

She wrapped her arms around herself, shuddering against the gloomy thought. Every muscle in her body protested the movement, reminding her of the beating she had taken earlier, the cut in her side throbbing again. For a heartbeat she slipped into old habits, automatically feeling the urge to cross the carriage, to feel Malavai’s comforting warmth, to reassure herself she was not alone. To rest. Then her conscious mind intervened. She snuck a glance at him, silhouetted against the carriage lamps. She let her eyes linger for a moment, hating him. Missing him. Hating him even more for how she missed him.

He must have felt her eyes on him, for he turned toward her. She yanked her gaze back to her windows before their eyes could meet, her mouth tightening in annoyance. Given how her eyes were most likely reflecting the carriage light, there was no way he could have missed her staring.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. He paused, but Mara closed her eyes and resolutely remained still, face turned away from him. After a moment he continued, “There are not words that could adequately apologize for how I have harmed you, nor are there words to adequately convey how deeply I regret having done so. I have no right to ask anything of you, but if you will allow me, I will work for the rest of my life, however long that may be, to atone for what I have done. Short of that I will accept whatever decision you make about any place I may have in your life.”

Mara squeezed her eyes shut harder, holding in the tears that threatened to escape and sternly ordering her face to relax. She refused to cry in front of him. She would let this out, later, alone, but not here. She focused on her anger, trying to bury the sadness for the moment. It worked; the tears receded and her face became serene. In the distance she saw lights, most likely from outbuildings on Malavai’s land, if not the house itself. A thought struck her suddenly.

“Did Georgiana and Lady Quinn know about this?”

Her stomach twisted, hoping against all odds that he would answer in the negative. She was not sure she could handle living in a house with three people who had conspired to take everything from her.

“They knew Duke Baras had made an offer on your behalf and that I had accepted,” he said slowly, “But they did not know any of the terms of the agreement aside from the relief from my father’s debts.”

Mara nodded, still staring out the window, trying to decide how she felt about that. No wonder they had tried to make her feel so welcome.

“Please do not take this out on them,” he said. “I alone am responsible for my actions, Lady Thrask. They had no say, no hand in my decisions, and I shared with them only enough for them to know their future was secure. Georgiana,” his voice broke, and Mara jerked to look at him before she could stop herself. He began again. “My sister thinks the world of you. Please, I beg you, do not make her pay for what I have done.”

Mara frowned at the fear in his voice.

“Do you truly think I would harm her? That I would harm _you_?” The words were out of her mouth before she remembered threatening him earlier. She winced and began again. “My quarrel, my substantial quarrel, is with you, Malavai, and no one else. You have hurt me more than anyone else ever has. More than I thought was possible. But I would not… I could not…” she trailed off. 

The thought of following through on her threat from earlier made her physically ill, as did admitting that fact to him. 

He held her gaze for a slim moment, nodded his understanding, and then turned to look out the window. “We are nearly there.”

Mara exhaled in relief. The feeling was short-lived, however, as another anxiety gripped her. She was certain her uncle would find ways to check up on her, to make sure she was fulfilling her end of their bargain, such as it was, and that her behavior was becoming of her new station. Despite that, she simply did not have the will to force herself to spend the night with her new husband.

He seemed to follow her train of thought.

“The countess’s chambers adjoin my rooms.” 

She nodded to herself; appearances would be satisfied, at least. She met his gaze. “You may escort me to your rooms. And that is all.”

He nodded as the carriage came to a halt, exiting first and turning to offer his hand. She took it, eyeing her surroundings as she stepped down. In her distraction, she managed to step on her skirt and tumble forward. Malavai caught her, her body thumping into his gently, but still hard enough to send a bolt of pain through her various injuries. She hissed through clenched teeth, stubbornly ignoring how warm his arm was around her waist. When she pulled back to take his arm, his brow was furrowed in concern. 

“I’m fine,” she growled softly. 

His mouth tightened as if he were holding in a retort, but he nodded and escorted her into the house. 

The vestibule and the greeting room it opened into where light and airy, high ceilings and copious lamps and chandeliers balancing the dark wood paneling of the walls. An ornate staircase formed the focal point of the room, widening in graceful curves at the lowest steps and leading up to an open-railed hallway that ran the width of the room, disappearing on either side into the depths of the house. 

Their personal servants and luggage had been sent ahead of them. Despite that, their arrival was met with the controlled panic that only came from having one’s employer show up unannounced. A butler hurried to them, bowing low.

“Lord Quinn, my- my lady,” he gaped as he looked Mara up and down. His gaze held the same surprise, the same curiosity, of any Kaasian who had never seen a sith before. She must have frowned, for he bowed again. 

“Forgive me, Lady Quinn, and welcome to Sobrik. I regret you are meeting us in less than ideal circumstances.” He straightened and looked at Malavai. “I must apologize, my lord, we only learned an hour ago you were to arrive this evening. Mrs. Brimble is making up your rooms now, and Mrs. Pinfield is assembling a meal from what we served Lady Qu-” he paused, his gaze shifting to Mara, “to the dowager,” he amended, “and to Lady Georgiana.” 

“It is quite all right, Hawk,” Quinn replied, his voice soothing. He turned to Mara, the slight tightening of his jaw the only indication he was uncertain in addressing her. “Darling, you should eat; it has been a long day.” 

Mara bit back a sharp retort. He was right, of course - her stomach had growled at the mention of food - and of course he would address her normally, with affection, before the staff. Still, she bridled at his familiarity and ease with giving her orders. It was a moment before she could respond appropriately

“I… yes, thank you, Mr. Hawk, was it?”

The butler bowed. 

“Please have two plates sent up to my rooms, Hawk,” Malavai said.

“Ah,” the butler averted his gaze, but not before Mara caught the slight quirk of a knowing smile on his face. “Yes, my lord. A footman will bring everything directly.”

Malavai thanked him and steered Mara toward the staircase. She forced herself to keep a normal pace and gait even as parts of her protested the exercise. By the time they reached the earl’s rooms her breath whistled between clenched teeth. 

She yanked her hand away from him the moment the door closed behind them. The room was dimly lit, deliberately so it would seem, the bed turned down, several thornrose blooms scattered across the sheets. Even with the short notice, the staff of Sobrik had tried, in their own way, to make their new countess feel welcome.

Mara couldn’t decide whether to laugh hysterically or empty her stomach into the nearest refuse bin. The room suddenly felt stiflingly small. 

“The countess’s room?” she demanded shortly.

Malavai seemed to drag his gaze from the bed, his face bright with an embarrassed blush. He moved toward a door in the left-hand wall, gesturing as he went. 

“Here.” He led her through his dressing room to a door that opened directly into hers. He opened it and paused. “M- Your grace, please remember to have Zara change the bandage on your side. The wound should be cleaned and-”

He paused when she held up a hand. 

“I know. You’ll let me know when the food arrives?” He nodded. She looked into his eyes, really looked, for the first time since her uncle’s revelations that morning. She sighed. “For what it’s worth, I believe you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I believe that you love me.”

His face visibly relaxed and he moved as if to reach out to her.

“I don’t understand how you think that is in any way comforting.” She pulled away from him and held his gaze, allowing everything - her rage, her pain, her grief - to show on her face. “Knowing you didn’t love me enough to stop this…” 

She trailed off and turned away, trying to control her tears and cursing herself for thinking she would be strong enough to engage in this line of conversation now. 

He tried to say something; she could hear his voice, distantly. Probably something soothing, something supremely apologetic. The words washed over her without being processed as she stepped through the door and  yanked it closed behind her. 

He fell silent when he heard the click of the lock sliding into place.


	16. Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mara spends her first few days at Sobrik. Georgiana is unapologetically wonderful. Quinn takes advice from the ladies in his life.

Quinn sighed and pushed his half-eaten dinner aside. For the fourth time that evening, he eyed the bell pull and considered summoning Zara to his study, and for the fourth time that evening dismissed the idea firmly. Despite the adjoining doors of their chambers, he hadn’t seen or heard Mara since the night they arrived. He’d knocked that first night when food arrived, as promised, but received no answer.

He’d kept to his chambers the first day, both to work on formulating a plan, and to support the appearance of a newly married couple just arrived home. He didn’t want to believe that Baras had spies amongst his staff, but if he’d learned anything in the last few days it was to approach the duke with far more caution than seemed prudent. Hiding in his rooms for a day or two was a small price to pay to keep Vette and Jaesa safe while he figured out how to clean up the mess he’d made.

Still, on the second morning after their arrival, his rooms had begun to feel stifling, so he’d dressed and taken back passages to his study and split his time. As the day wore on his worry about Mara’s condition grew - she hadn’t left her rooms so far as he could tell, nor has she eaten anything since their breakfast the morning of their impromptu wedding, nearly three days ago now.

So here he sat, ultimately asking for dinner to be brought to him at his desk under the guise of giving Mara some time alone, trying to determine how to care for her without intruding upon her privacy. Summoning Zara would arouse suspicion, but less than he would asking his housekeeper to check on his new bride for him.

He stared at the bell pull again before pointedly turning back to the contract law treatise open on his desk. If he were honest with himself, he didn’t need Zara to tell him what he already knew. Mara had not eaten or left her rooms; if she had, the staff that brought his meals would have commented. It was that simple.

If she had not stirred by lunch time tomorrow, he would summon Zara. He would not intrude upon her, but the maid at least could ascertain her condition and help her accordingly.

Secure in his plan, he picked up a pen and returned to the notes he was taking

***

Mara had little memory of her first few days at Sobrik; while Malavai paced his rooms and worried over her, she slept.

She cried herself to sleep the night of their arrival, after she closed her door in Malavai’s face. She opened her eyes sometime later, blinking in the sunlight that streamed through her windows, looking around in confusion at her unfamiliar surroundings. Those few seconds of blissful ignorance shattered as the pain of her injuries reasserted itself, and she remembered where she was and why. She rose long enough to strip out of her gown and stays and slid back into the unfamiliar bed naked before willing herself back to sleep.

Nightmares consumed her. Draagh slitting Vette’s throat while Jaesa screamed. Her own life draining away as her uncle’s hands squeezed her throat, Malavai slumped behind him, eyes glassy and lifeless above the blade sticking out of his chest. Vette and Jaesa holding Malavai still as Pierce draw an intricate pattern across his chest with a knife. Screaming as fire consumed Pesegam, Malavai’s arms around her holding her back from running into the flames.

Some of the nightmares threw her back into the waking world gasping, but for the most part they melted one into the other, until finally a blissful darkness took her.

 _Get up._ It was her mother’s voice, or the memory of it at least. _Do not shame me more than you already have. Get. Up._

 _I guess you were a weak Kaasian after all._ That was Lady Nox. _It’s a mercy your mother is too dead to see what you’ve become._

Mara sat up with a yell, hands scrabbling for a weapon that did not exist. She sat for a moment, her heart thudding in her ears. The sun was up, but she had no idea what time it actually was. She stumbled, battered body and disused muscles protesting, to the wall and yanked the bell pull, praying Zara had enough sense to come herself instead of sending up the housekeeper as might have been expected for a new mistress of the house.

Blissfully it was Zara’s voice that called through the door moments later. Mara, wrapped in a robe the maid had thoughtfully unpacked and hung up in her dressing room, called an entrance.

Zara’s nose wrinkled as she looked around the room.

“Can you have the kitchen send up something to eat? Is it too late for breakfast?” Mara’s stomach grumbled loudly.

“Ah… perhaps you should bathe first, your grace?”

Mara winced. “It’s that bad?”

“Perhaps it’s merely the air stagnating from being shut up in here for too long,” Zara replied diplomatically.

Mara smiled. “Or something along those lines.”

“I’ve taken the liberty of having water heated for you; it should arrive soon. I will ask Mrs. Pinfield to put together a breakfast tray; the family has only just finished eating.”

“The family? Malavai is-“

“Oh, no your grace.” Zara flushed slightly. “The dowager countess and Lady Georgiana. Lord Quinn has kept to his rooms these two days.”

Mara relaxed. “This is the… third morning? Since our arrival?”

Zara nodded. “Indeed. None of the staff here has asked about you whereabouts yet. It was assumed…” She trailed off and flushed.

Mara grimaced. “Of course.”

A knock sounded, and Zara opened the door and spoke softly to someone on the other side.

“Your bath is ready, your grace,” she said.

She led Mara up the hall, past the doors she knew to be Malavai’s, to a bathing chamber. She sank gratefully into a deep clawfoot tub, the warm water soothing her stiff muscles. Zara busied herself bringing a dress and undergarments into the room as Mara washed her hair and body.

Once clean, she donned a fresh Horusetian dress - black with silver thread - and brushed her hair out, leaving it free flowing as a sign of mourning. Back in her rooms, Mara devoured the tray the cook had sent up.

“How do you like it here so far, Zara?” she asked

Zara poked her head out of the dressing room, where she had begun unpacking Mara’s dresses and other belongings.

“I…” she paused. Mara sighed and put down her spoon.

“It is okay if you prefer it here, Zara. I would have as well, if not…” She took a deep breath and looked her maid in the eye. “I understand. Fool that he may be, Lord Quinn is not my uncle.”

“No, your grace,” Zara replied. “The staff seem happy. It is a… a welcome change.”

Mara nodded.

“I imagine it is. I will set aside time to meet with the principal staff tomorrow. Today I should like to be alone; will you inform the housekeeper?”

“Mrs. Brimble,” Zara supplied the name. “And yes, I will. The family takes luncheon at 2:00 if you wish to eat then, your grace.”

“Thank you, Zara.”

She left her room and walked back up the hallway, toward the bathing chamber, cursing herself when she stepped noisily on a loose floorboard outside Malavai’s door and scurried up the hall as fast as she could without actually running. She rounded the corner and paused, listening, but did not hear anything that sounded like a door opening. At length she hurried toward a set of stairs and took them down to the ground floor of the house.

Sobrik was newer than the Citadel, and had a homier feel to it. Where the Citadel’s main floor had been stonework and stone floors softened with rugs and murals depicting martial scenes, Sobrik was more modern, rich wood wainscoting and warm cream-colored walls laden with tapestries and artwork - family portraits, she guessed. Most of the paintings captured subjects who stared down at her with the same piercing blue eyes Malavai and Georgiana had inherited. Interestingly Georgiana seemed to favor their heritage more in terms of coloring and shape of face; most of the ancestors depicted here were sandy-haired, their features rounder and softer. Malavai’s sharp jaw and angular features clearly came from his mother’s line.

She wandered through a music room and a library, a secondary parlor, before she found a pair of doors that led out onto the house’s grounds. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply as a gust of wind washed over her, the first fresh air she’d had in days. The morning had not quite lost its chill, but it was a perfect spring day.

The house was situated on a large hill. Indeed, Balmorra itself was known for its craggy, mountainous landscape. The immediate vicinity of the house was given over to lawns, dwarf trees, and thornrose beds. Further out, and down a significant slope, a larger garden spread out around most of the hill, save for a small lake at the foot of the northernmost slope of the hill. Beyond the garden and lake, thin forest speckled the landscape until rocky brown cliffs rose into the horizon.

Mara walked the edge of the hill, studying her surroundings, before making her way down a winding path into the gardens. She had only walked for ten minutes or so before acute homesickness squeezed her heart. The Horusetian influence was obvious; the flora had the artfully disheveled look that characterized Horusetian gardens, and in amongst the Kaasian lilies and mourning willows were plants native to her homeland: the striated, thick, tear-shaped leaves of Korribani niobe; the ubiquitous, purple-black thornrose; desert orchids in every color of the sunset. It was unsurprising really, that so many plants from Horuset would thrive in Balmorra; the climate was a bit warmer, but it would take more than a few degrees of heat or extra centimeters of annual rainfall to kill a Horusetian plant. Like the people that domesticated them, these plants were built to endure.

As she sank down among the desert orchids, Mara realized with a start she was completely alone. No attendants, no grooms or even her ladies, as much as she missed them and feared for their safety. She knew she would proceed on the assumption that someone in Lord Quinn’s household would act as a mole for her uncle, but they were not here with her now.

It had been years since she’d walked anywhere unaccompanied and unwatched. The thought made her giddy.

The last time she’d been this alone she’d been a child, and some part of that child surfaced now. Her body was too injured to scamper about as much as she wanted, but she spent the next several hours walking through the gardens, sunning herself in the odd open green and picking flowers. At length, her cheeks stinging from the cool early spring wind, she climbed back up the path to the house. She must have looked positively wild, she mused: soft boots and the hem of her gown covered in mud and her loose hair adorned with an odd assortment of Horusetian and Kaasian flowers.

She stood at the top of the path and looked back down over the gardens and the lake, her hair writhing around her in the wind, a flower her or there blowing away when it was dislodged. Staring out over the land she suddenly felt more centered, focused. Whatever else Balmorra was, it was _hers_ , a place of relative safety. The first she’d had in over a decade. She could not pretend that she was happy, or that Balmorra would ever be enough given what her uncle and Malavai took from her. But it was something to start with, to build upon. And she would.

“You look like a spring goddess,” a voice said from behind her.

Mara jumped before she could stop herself. She whirled to see Georgiana studying her with keen blue eyes, her blonde hair shining like straw in the sunlight.

“Good morning, Georgiana."

“I am surprised to find you out here alone.”

Mara froze, her mind suddenly blank as she searched for an appropriate lie.

“I… I needed some air, that is all,” she stammered finally.

Georgiana looked pointedly at Mara’s muddy feet and raised a blonde eyebrow. “And just how long were you in the gardens?”

Mara pressed her lips together. The younger woman nodded.

“Something is wrong.” It was not a question.

“Everything is fine,” she replied firmly. Stars, she did not want to have this conversation with a 13-year-old girl who idolized her older brother.

Georgiana let out an unladylike snort.

“Of course it is.” Mara opened her mouth but the girl held up a hand. “You don’t have to tell me; I’m sure it is married people’s business and therefore none of mine. But,” her blue eyes sparkled, “if you like I can put a toad or two into Malavai’s bed.”

Mara burst out laughing.

“You would do that? For all you know he may be the victim here.”

Georgiana looped her arm with Mara’s and drew her along the stone path leading to the house.

“Impossible. I love my brother, Lady Thrask, but he can be an insufferable boor when he chooses to be.”

Mara smiled. “He can, at that. Are toads your usual method for keeping him in line?”

“Toads… salting his breakfast porridge until it is inedible… ink in his tea… but the toads are the most amusing.”

“And where, pray tell, does one get these toads from?” She grinned. “I inquire for informational purposes only.”

Georgiana studied her for a long moment. “Well, informationally speaking…. There are hordes of the things down on the banks of the lake.”

“And you carry them all the way up here? However do you get them in the house?”

Georgiana leaned close and whispered, “I’m afraid that’s my secret, your grace.”

Mara chuckled.

Georgiana stopped then, looking at Mara earnestly.

“I don’t know what my brother has done to earn your ire, your grace, but I… I hope we can still be sisters.” Her blue eyes searched Mara’s face intently. “I have always wanted a sister.”

“Of course, Georgiana.” Mara replied, surprised by how much she meant her words. “I… no matter what may come, I would be honored to consider you my sister.”

A bright smile broke across Georgiana’s face, and Mara could not help but smile in return. The one decent thing Malavai had done during their argument was speak on his sister’s behalf. Mara’s smile turned to a wordless, open-mouthed gasp when Georgiana enveloped her in a tight hug, her arms around her waist, perfectly positioned to aggravate nearly all of Mara’s injuries.

“You must call me Mara, if we are to be sisters,” she said, proud that she was able to unclench her jaw.

Georgiana stepped back and nodded. “Of course, Mara. Come, I will show you the rest of Sobrik.”

Mara took a few steadying breaths and followed her into the house.

***

Quinn looked up from his desk when the clock chimed 2:00. He’d been shut up in his study all morning and had neglected to eat. With a sigh he rose. He had hoped to receive word that Mara had emerged or at least summoned her maid, but so far nothing. He would summon Zara after luncheon, but first, he must face his family. He would have to be extremely careful in what he said, but he simply couldn’t keep hiding in his rooms forever pretending nothing was amiss. Indeed, that he had not checked in on Georgiana, at least, had most likely aroused the girl’s suspicions.

He took the book and notes he was writing and slid them into a drawer in his desk, locked it, and tucked the key into his breast pocket before making his way to the informal dining room.

Mrs. Brimble was leaving the room, closing the door behind her, when Quinn arrived. She curtseyed hurriedly when she saw him, a broad smile on her face.

“The ladies have already sat down, my lord. I know they will be glad to have you join them.”

Quinn thanked her and watched her leave, a bemused smile on his face. Georgiana must be in rare form this morning for the housekeeper to be filled with that much levity. He opened the door to the dining room.

“You seem to have quite thoroughly diverted Mrs. Brimble, Georgiana-”

He cut off when he looked up name saw not two, but three ladies at table. Mara sat at the head of the table facing the door in a black gown that showed her ridges and décolletage to advantage, long sleeves loose enough to conceal a blade. Her hair was loose, a fact that made his heart clench - loose hair in public was a sign of mourning for sith. The relaxed serenity on her face immediately hardened, her eyes narrowing when they met his.

Despite that, he could hardly keep from sagging with relief that she was up and about.

She stood hurriedly. “I’m sorry, I must-”

“No, no, my dear,” he said quickly, wincing at the endearment, “I will ask Mrs. Brimble to send a plate to my study. Please, enjoy your meal, ladies.”

“What is wrong with you two?” Georgiana looked between them.

“Georgiana is rather blunt, but she’s not wrong,” Lady Quinn added. “I should very much like to know what happened to bring you two here so unexpectedly, and so clearly out of sorts.”

Mara’s eyes widened, but her voice was calm when she spoke, “Please, this is nothing you need to worry about,” she began.

Quinn stepped forward. “It’s alright,” he said. “I cannot lie about this anymore.”

He held her gaze for a long moment before she sank slowly back into her chair.

“Lie about what?” Georgiana’s voice had risen slightly.

Quinn sighed and stepped forward, gripping the back of the chair at the foot of the table. Thank goodness luncheons were not served _a la russe_ ; there were no servants present for this conversation.

“You both know I entered into a contract with Duke Baras wherein I agreed to,” he swallowed, his eyes sliding away from Mara’s, “to marry Lady Thrask in exchange for relief from father’s debts.”

Georgiana’s head jerked toward Mara. “No one ever told you, did they?”

“We did not,” Quinn answered, drawing Georgiana’s gaze back to him. He didn’t look at his mother, but he knew exactly what expression she wore; it was the expression that always greeted him after he’d broken something precious or treated Georgiana callously.

“What you did not know - what no one but the duke and I knew - was that he made an additional stipulation.” He shifted his gaze to a random point on the wall behind Mara. He cursed his cowardice, but he did not think he could say the words if he were looking directly at any of them. “He required me to entail the duchy of Pesegam on him immediately upon the marriage.”

He heard a gasp and looked down. Georgiana’s mouth had dropped open, and his mother’s face was carefully neutral, a fact that made him swallow noisily. She only wore that neutral mask when she was having great difficulty maintaining a ladylike calm.

“My uncle forced the issue three days ago. We were…” Mara’s voice faltered for a moment and she took a deep breath. “We were wed and came straight here.”

“And the entailment?” That was his mother.

“I signed it that morning.”

For a moment silence reigned.

“How could you?” It was a whisper.

Quinn locked eyes with his sister.

“I thought it was the only path I had,” he said quietly. “I had to protect you.” He looked at his mother. “Both of you. But I… I should have found a different way. At the very least,” he locked eyes with his wife. “I should have confessed everything to you the moment we met. I knew it was odd that Baras wanted to keep the arrangement secret but I did nothing.”

Georgiana stood so quickly her chair toppled over.

“How could you?” She demanded again, yelling this time. “How could you sign something knowing you would hurt someone so much? How could you…” she trailed off and wiped at her face with the back of her hand, “and you made _me_ a party to it. You have done this horrible thing _in my name_.”

Quinn resisted the urge to step back; he’d never seen his sister so upset. Mara locked eyes with him and shook her head minutely, then stood and slipped an arm around Georgiana’s shoulders.

“Come with me,” she said quietly, wiping away some of Georgiana’s tears.

The younger woman sniffed loudly and looked up at her. “How can you stand to be here? How can you stand my presence knowing what he did?”

“Georgiana, you must learn not to take responsibility for the stupidity of others. Your brother made a choice; this is not your fault.”

Georgiana allowed herself to be led away from the table. As they passed him his sister paused to glare up at him.

“Asshole.”

Quinn felt his mouth drop open and his mother said Georgiana’s name sharply.

Mara didn’t bother to hide her mirthless laugh.

Quinn winced and forced himself to meet his mother’s gaze as the door closed behind them.

“Sit,” she said. “It’s been too long since we’ve had lunch together.”

Her voice was calm but there was steel beneath it; a tone Quinn, even as a thirty-two-year-old man, knew better than to quarrel with. He sat across from her in the chair Georgiana had vacated. 

“I should have told you the full truth, mother. I’m sorry.”

She raised a dark eyebrow as she served herself some cold ham and salad. “If you had, Malavai, I cannot say for certain I would have dissuaded you.”

“I’m sorry?”

His mother sighed and sat back. “Unlike your sister, Malavai, I know and fully understand the impossible situation you were in. Perhaps I could have helped find a way around that stipulation had you shared it with me, but to preserve Balmorra?” She shook her head. “You knew your duty and you did not shrink from it despite what it would cost you personally. You are the earl I raised you to be. Still…”

“Still?”

“If someone disinherited you or your sister the way you have Lady Thrask, especially after cultivating a romantic relationship, I would not hesitate to gut them.”

Quinn felt his mouth drop open; he could hardly picture his mother wielding a knife, let alone spilling someone’s blood.

She smiled, but her brown eyes remained hard. “Do not look so shocked, my son. Your father is lucky he was already dead when his debts came to light.”

She watched him closely as he assimilated this new information.

“So you see, I understand both sides of this mess.” She returned to her plate and began working on her lunch. “I know you were not sequestered in your rooms doing what the staff assumes you were. I presume you were formulating a plan to fix this?”

Quinn leaned forward.

“I have several avenues I am exploring, but I had hoped to speak to Mara and-“

He cut off when his mother shook her head.

“Malavai, are you trying to correct this because it’s the right thing to do, or because you want Lady Thrask’s forgiveness?”

He didn’t hesitate. “It’s the right thing to do. And… I want her to be happy.”

“Do you need her involvement specifically? For legal or logistical reasons?”

Quinn frowned. “I… I do not think so. Not yet at any rate.”

“Then fix it. Do not lurk in the house hoping she will speak to you about this; I can guarantee she does not want to hear what you _hope_ you can do. Go clean up your mess.”

“And… Mara?”

His mother smiled. “We will care for her, of course. Although she will require less care than you seem to think.” She pushed her plate aside and leaned forward, her posture matching his. “Tell me what you are going to do. I will advise you.”

***

After luncheon was over, Quinn ventured down to the servant’s hall in search of Zara. To his shock, she agreed to send some letters of introduction on his behalf with only minimal coaxing. That task accomplished, he spent the afternoon in his study writing the letters she agreed to send, pausing for a quick dinner. A few more hours of work and then he was outside Georgiana’s door, knocking softly.

“Georgiana? May I come in?”

There was a long pause.

“If you must.”

He opened the door and poked his head into the room.

“I must, I’m afraid. I cannot leave without apologizing to you.”

She was already dressed for bed, a nightgown and robe, her blonde hair braided and pulled over her shoulder, sitting next to a lamp reading. At the mention of him leaving, she jerked upright.

“Leave? Why…” she pursed her lips and glared at him. “It doesn’t matter. I’m still angry with you.”

“I understand,” he said, closing the door behind him and sitting down next to her. “It was wrong of me to keep this from you, to think it involved me alone.”

“It was,” she replied shortly, though her face softened a little. “You may be the head of this family, Malavai, but we’re still a family. We deal with these things together.” She paused and looked away, and when she looked back at him her lower lip trembled slightly. “I was so excited when I met Mara she…”

Quinn folded his sister into a hug.

“My dear girl,” he sighed. “You should know that Mara adores you, and I believe she will no matter what.”

“It’s not just me, you idiot,” she grumbled against his chest. “I’m angry on your behalf, too; she is so good for you.”

“I know,” he sighed, letting himself feel for a moment how much he missed the lady in question. “But that consequence is mine alone to bear, Georgiana.”

He hesitated and pulled away so he could look his sister in the eye. “You must prepare yourself, sweeting, for it is entirely possible that she may not forgive me. If she regains her holdings she may well decide to leave for home and not return, and to seek an annulment to this marriage. If she does, you must understand that is entirely my fault and not yours.”

He kept his voice even as he said it. He would accept that decision if she made it, but stars he would miss her for the rest of his wretched life.

“That is why you’re leaving, isn’t it?” Georgiana looked at him intently. “To find a way to block or undo the entailment.”

He nodded.

“Even though that makes it easier for her to leave you.”

“Yes.”

“Will Baras demand payment on our debt?”

“I do not know. Perhaps. But we will find a way to deal with that if it comes, will we not?”

She smiled. “We will.”

Quinn smiled in return and kissed her forehead.

“Sleep well, sweeting.”

As he rose to leave Georgiana cleared her throat. When he turned around, she had a distinctly sheepish look on her face. Quinn sighed and gave her a knowing look.

“Yes?” He prompted.

“There are… a number of toads in your bed.”

He raised an eyebrow, trying to keep his face stern.

“And that number is?”

“Four? Or five?”

“What?” He gaped. “You must be joking. You couldn't carry that many.”

“Mara helped me.”

“She helped you.”

“You deserve it.” She raised her chin defiantly.

He found himself grinning despite his exasperation.

“Good night, Georgiana.”

He took a step toward the door.

“If there’s a pot of tea waiting in your rooms do _not_ drink it.”

He froze andglared over his shoulder.

“Anything else?”

She giggled.

“Not that I know of, but you should be on your guard.”

He shook his head. “You two should not be left unattended. Thank you for telling me.”

“Malavai?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t think she will leave.”

He studied Georgiana for a moment.

“I would deserve it if she did. But I hope you are right.”

He left in search of his gamekeeper to assist with extracting the toads.

***

Mara rose the following morning and summoned Zara to help her dress. The maid arrived with a letter in hand.

“Lord Quinn asked me to deliver this, your grace.”

Mara frowned and took the letter. It felt strange receiving a letter from her husband - how odd, the urge to call him that remained despite her anger and the underhanded circumstances of their marriage - despite sharing a house with him. Then again, she would not have welcomed him approaching her otherwise, and he clearly knew and respected that.

As Zara laid out her clothes and helped Mara into her stays, she opened the letter.

_Your Grace,_

_I have been called away to Kaas City on business. Sobrik is yours. My steward is fully capable of handling any business that may arise. However, I have instructions that he should consider your word law in any matter you feel warrants your involvement. I will send word if I have any news, or if I will be returning to the country. I have also enclosed a letter to you that was delivered to Gorinth House the morning we left town. My staff packed it along with any belongings you had stored there. Be well._

_Yours, Malavai_

Mara blinked, relief and annoyance warring within her. Relief that he’d given her the space she needed to work through this, and that he knew her well enough to know what she’d want from him. Annoyance for that exact reason, and that respecting her wishes made it ever so slightly more difficult to hate him. Difficult, but not impossible.

She opened the enclosed letter. It was from Lady Nox, with the promised list of masters who could assist with her training, along with the names of several Horusetian dressmakers.

“Zara, can you inform Mrs. Brimble that I will meet with her in the informal dining room in an hour? I have some letters to write first.”

“Of course.” Zara nodded and left.

Her uncle had told her to be a model countess, and she would be, until she could free Vette and Jaesa. But in marrying her off, he had, perhaps unwittingly, given her a degree of freedom she had not experienced since coming to Dromund Kaas, and she would take advantage of it. She sat down and began to write.

***

Vette sighed and sank back onto the settee and picked up her embroidery. It was… complex, and messy. But it had occupied her nervous hands for the past week and a half, since she and Jaesa had been gently threatened into Duke Baras’s carriage and returned to the Citadel. They had returned from a horseback ride an hour ago, and Jaesa had lain down for a nap. She napped a lot these days, a fact for which Vette could not quite blame her.

Mara was no doubt married by now. Baras had tried to insist Mara had abandoned them on purpose in favor of Lord Quinn, but Vette did not believe that for a second. Whispers amongst the kitchen staff seemed to confirm that belief: some kind of altercation in the duke’s townhouse study, a hastily-arranged wedding, a contingent of the duke’s men dispatched to Pesegam, and a number of unkind mutterings about Lord Quinn himself.

None of that indicated Mara went willingly to whatever fate Baras had arranged for her.

Which was heartening, but also not terribly helpful for Vette and Jaesa in their current predicament. Vette had managed to dispatch a letter to Taunt and the other twi’lek dissidents via Pierce, but she had not been able to find a safe way of contacting them since returning to the Citadel. 

A knock sounded at the door, and Sharack, the assistant cook, poked her bonneted head into the room.

“My lady,” she greeted Vette. She bore a tray laden with tea, sandwiches, and sweet breads. “Forgive me, ma’am, but I thought you and Miss Willsaam would enjoy an afternoon tea.”

Vette frowned, but nodded. Sharack and a few of the other staff had been extremely solicitous over the past week; they knew Vette and Jaesa were effectively prisoners and worked to make their existence pleasant, even if they could not free them directly.

“Thank you, Sharack.”

The other woman nodded and placed the tray on a table next to Vette. She shifted the tea pot to the side, revealing an envelope underneath. Her blue eyes met Vette’s for a moment, and then she curtseyed and left the room.

“She brought tea?”

Jaesa yawned and stepped into the room.

“Yes,” Vette replied, frowning at the envelope.

“How odd; we never asked for it.”

Vette picked up the envelope and held it up for Jaesa to see. She stared at it for a long moment.

“I suppose you should read it.”

She came and sat next to Vette on the settee.

_I understand you both are still allowed riding privileges despite the circumstances of your stay at the Citadel. I strongly advise you to ride to the river two days from the date of this letter at 3:00 in the afternoon._

The letter was unsigned.

“Well, that’s not suspicious at all,” Vette commented.

“What do you want to do?”

Vette chewed her lower lip. It was, indeed, suspicious - possibly a way for Baras to get rid of them, claiming they tried to escape. On the other hand, he was almost certainly using them as leverage against Mara, so that might not make sense, certainly not so early on. Vette doubted her friend could be beaten completely into submission in less than a month. The author was not Taunt; she would have identified herself using the code she and Vette worked out. It could possibly be Mara, but that seemed too remote a possibility to hope for. Still…

“We don’t really have anything better to occupy our time tomorrow,” Vette said slowly.

Jaesa sat for a moment. “That time of the afternoon would be fortuitous for an escape; the staff is so busy preparing dinner and for the evening chores, it will take longer for us to be missed.”

“And we can surely take care of anyone who is there to try and harm us.”

Jaesa snuggled close. “Perhaps we will be free tomorrow.”

 


	17. Repercussions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mara and Quinn settle into their now parallel lives. Lady Nox doles out some overdue political retribution.

 

Rathari’s saber sliced at Mara’s head with a sharp glint of sunlight. She parried with her own blade over her head, edge sliding up her opponent’s blade until it collided with the guard. Hers was a position of weakness in this particular standoff, but she only needed to hold his blade back for a second as her free hand flashed out, her knuckles softly connecting with the side of his throat. Had she struck with her full strength, he’d have staggered back gagging if he didn’t drop unconscious outright.

“Very good, your grace,” he said, disengaging and stepping back. “I’d lecture you that your aim would need to be flawless for such a plan to work, but you haven’t missed yet.”

Mara smiled at the compliment. It had been three weeks since Rathari arrived and took up her training, and his compliments had been few and far between. A low cry sounded a few meters away, and Mara turned in that direction in time to see Jaesa twist Vette’s arm behind her back tightly, forcing the twi’lek woman to the ground. After a moment Vette slapped the dirt with her free hand.

“I give,” she groaned.

Jaesa stood and helped Vette to her feet.

Her friends arrived at Sobrik two weeks ago, dusty and travel-worn, their horses exhausted, with nothing but the clothes on their backs. They had been close-lipped about how they’d escaped the Citadel; Mara gathered they’d had outside help, but so far had let Vette keep her secrets as to who that help had come from. She would coax the information out of her friend at some point, but for now Mara was so relieved to have them both with her and safe, she had little inclination to press too hard.

The sparse Balmorran underbrush cracked and rustled, punctuated by high-pitched barks, and suddenly Broonmark burst into view, nearly barreling Mara over in his haste to reach her. Mara laughed and dropped to her knees, her saber lying on its flat beside her, to cup the hound’s face in both hands and murmur nonsense to him. He’d arrived with Vette and Jaesa. Since then he’d been loathe to let Mara out of his sight, sleeping on the floor of the countess’s chambers and haunting her steps like an excited, overprotective ghost. If forced from Mara’s company, the staff and other denizens of Sobrik reported he whined pitifully until permitted to join her again.

There was one exception to that behavior: if left in Georgiana’s care, Broonmark seemed perfectly happy, possibly because the young woman eagerly supplied him with treats from the larder, sneaking them up from the kitchens when she thought no one was looking.

Georgiana was not far behind the hound, carrying a basket on her arm.

“If you are prepared to pause in your rough-housing, I have brought lunch,” Georgiana announced, her smile including Vette and Jaesa.

Mara looked at Rathari.

“You are welcome to join us, if you wish,” she said.

“I thank you, but no. I have letters I must write, if your grace will excuse me.”

“But of course.”

He bowed and withdrew, sheathing his saber as he walked back toward the house.

“When are you going to let us teach you?” Vette asked Georgiana as the four women settled onto the ground and Georgiana passed the cured meats, head of cheese, and bread between them.

Georgiana laughed.

“Never, Lady Vette,” she responded. “I do not think I’d be very good. Besides, what need do I have for such skills when I have the three of you nearby?”

Vette rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “That arrangement will suffice as long as you keep bringing us refreshment.”

“Fortunately for us all, I am exceptionally good at plying Mrs. Pinfield for the best luncheon options,” Georgiana replied.

“That skill may be more useful than any of the others we’re refining here,” Jaesa put in, her words garbled as she spoke around a bite of cheese.

Mara sat back, watching her friends and her sister-in-law joke and laugh with one another. Georgiana had been a natural addition to their company, more than Vette’s equal in verbal sparring, even as she matched Jaesa in sweetness. After a mere fortnight it was impossible to remember what it had been like before her sister-in-law had joined their group.

Broonmark curled up next to her, his bulk large enough that he could lean against Mara while still keeping his head near enough to Georgiana to receive the strips of dried meat the younger woman slipped to him. It was a beautiful spring day, the sun high but not too warm, a playful breeze tickling her skin. If she closed her eyes and let her head lean against her hound, she could allow herself to believe, for a moment, that this was home that she’d arrived here of her own free will. She’d return to the house to find Malavai in his study, loving and eager to twine his fingers in her hair and having never harmed her in any way.

“Mara?”

Mara jerked and looked up; all three women were looking at her, brows furrowed in concern.

“Yes?”

“Are you alright?”

Mara shifted her gaze to Georgiana and hesitated only a moment before nodding.

“I am fine. But,” she rose and dusted off her breeches. “If you ladies will excuse me, I have business with Sobrik’s steward. I will see you all at dinner.”

She walked away with Broonmark at her heels, carrying her sheathed saber, and cursed herself for slipping back into such a useless fantasy. Keeping busy helped, of course. She did not actually have business with Mr. Edmunds, Malavai’s steward, but she was confident he would present her with something to worry over after she sought him out.

Malavai, Pesegam, even her fleeting feelings of contentment here… all of that was a helpless snarl. But a drainage problem or one of the other endless maintenance issues that plagued any sizable estate… that she could deal with.

***

“My lords, there is a traitor in your midst.”

As one all twelve members of the Council froze, not so much as a breath disturbing the silence of the Council chamber, as they stared at Lady Nox. Quinn’s eyes twitched between the petite Sith noblewoman and Lord Marr, his heart pounding in his ears. If she did not have any proof to back up her claim, Lady Nox would soon find herself imprisoned for slander, or worse, treason.

“I hope Lord Vowrawn has informed you of the extremely thin ice you walk on bringing this accusation, Lady Nox,” Lord Marr rumbled. “We do not take such accusations, or those who make them, lightly.”

“Vowrawn has indeed briefed me on the standard of proof for such accusations, yes,” Lady Nox replied, inclining her head slightly as if to offset the patronizing sarcasm in her voice. “And I come prepared to meet that threshold or face the consequences.”

“Then you may proceed.”

“Lord Thanaton, who is Margaret Injaye?”

Thanaton’s eyes widened and he sat up straighter.

“You intend to accuse me of treason, Lady Nox?” He laughed derisively. “My fellows, surely you know this woman has been eager for my downfall ever since she arrived in Kaas City. You cannot possibly-“

“It is a very simple question, my lord,” Lady Nox cut in, her voice innocent. “I have accused you of nothing.”

“Answer the question, Thanaton.” That was Vowrawn.

Thanaton’s brown eyes shifted from Lady Nox to Vowrawn, to Marr, to Baras, as if looking for support. At the continued silence, he cleared his throat.

“Miss Injaye is a former ward of my family.”

“Was? She is no longer living on your estate?”

“She left some years ago, Lady Nox. Is there a point to this questioning?”

“Nine years ago, to be precise, am I correct?”

Thanaton smiled faintly.

“You know my business better than I, Lady Nox. I cannot recall the exact timing of her departure.”

“Do you know her whereabouts?”

“Of course not. She had reached her majority and left of her own free will. I had other claims on my time than keeping track of the girl.”

Lady Nox cocked her head.

“That is exceedingly odd; your staff claims you treated her like a daughter and she was extremely devoted to you.”

Thanataon’s voice, already flat, became cold. “You have been speaking to my staff, Lady Nox?”

The redheaded woman smiled mischievously. “Only in passing. Are you sure you do not know where your ward is?”

“Alas, we had a falling out before she left,” Thanataon said uncomfortably. “She clearly communicated her wish to separate herself from myself and my family and I respected her wishes.”

“This is all very interesting,” Lord Rictus interrupted, “but I fail to see the point of this exercise.”

“My point,” Lady Nox replied testily, “is that while I was at Corellia, weekly letters arrived addressed from Lord Thanaton to a Miss Margaret Injaye.”

“That is preposterous!” Thanaton sputtered.

“I saw the letters myself, my lord. I and Major Ovech and any number of low-rank officers we tasked with delivering the letters to Miss Injaye.”

“I… I found out she was living in Corellia. I merely wrote to implore her to come home,” Thanatos said finally. He looked amongst his fellow councilors. “I cared for the girl; I did not wish her to be caught between armies when the city was retaken.”

“Is that why you sent her coin?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Is that why you sent coin? To fund her return? Our men reported that her living situation improved markedly after your first letter arrived.”

The silence thickened to the point that Quinn thought he might suffocate. At the very least, Lady Nox had uncovered some scandal in Thanaton’s past. At worst, a sitting Council member had engaged in treason that resulted in the death of another Council member.

“This is a family matter,” Thanaton growled into the silence. “I will not air my private affairs at the urging of some Sith nag who has forgotten her place.”

Lady Nox smiled brightly, her hazel eyes glittering. In that moment she brought to Quinn’s mind the Sith origin myth Mara had told him, of how her people had begun their existence as unparalleled predators. Lady Nox’s line was younger than that and Kaasian in origin, but as she gazed at Thanaton there was no doubting the Sith influence in her personality. Lady Nox nearly glowed with the pleasure of seeing her prey neatly cornered.

“That is just as well, my lord,” she purred. “I have no other questions for you.”

She turned to Marr.

“The circumstances of Vengean’s death have plagued me since returning to Dromund Kaas, Lord Marr. We knew our position was tactically precarious, but even so the initial incursion by the jedi seemed too neat, too targeted. I did not suspect the truth, however, until I received a letter from General Heskar.”

Lady Nox’s attention widened to the full room. “The general and I got on well during the Corellia campaign, and he has kept me apprised of the morale of our forces since I returned to Dromund Kaas. His most recent letter was most troubling. It would seem our retreat from Corellia has been quite the boon to Republic morale. Indeed, his scouts have reported hearing stories of the Republic’s heroism told in taverns from Alderaan to Ord Mantell. Do you know what their favorite story is?”

She paused, allowing the rhetorical question to hang in the air.

“The most popular story - and by far the most consistent - is that of Major Gret Injaye, a woman of Kaasian origin who bravely gave her life liberating her adopted home from the tyrannical Kaasian occupiers. It is said that Major Injaye slayed the despotic Governor Vengean herself.” She met Marr’s gaze directly. “I can confirm that the woman I fought in Vengean’s offices matches the description of the woman to whom our soldiers delivered Lord Thanaton’s letters.”

“So I ask you again, Thanaton: Why did you send coin to your former ward?”

Thanaton bolted to his feet, his firsts clenched.

“I do not have to answer to you for anything, cur.”

“But you do have to answer to me,” Marr cut in, his voice sharp and cold. “And I would know the answer to that question.”

“My lords,” he seemed to deflate slightly, “Surely you will not take the word of this woman over that of a man you have served with these last seventeen years.” His eyes flitted from one Council member to the next, finally settling on Baras. “Your grace, we have been allies for so long, you know-“

“How dare you,” Baras cut in, leaning forward in his seat. “How dare you suggest our past friendship would make me overlook such an egregious lapse in judgement. No, my old friend, you have woven this web about yourself. I will not join you in it.”

Marr stood. “Lord Thanaton, you will be taken into custody pending a trial concerning your crimes.”

Thanaton seemed not to hear him; the man’s attention had fallen utterly on Lady Nox, eyes alive with hatred. She met his gaze calmly, that same satisfied smile on her face, not appearing discomfited at all by such wild scrutiny.

Suddenly, without warning, Thanaton yelled a string of expletives and launched himself at the diminutive woman. She laughed, clearly delighted her assailant had made the colossally stupid decision to attack her, and stepped to the side casually. As Thanaton landed just in front of where she had been standing, her right hand flashed up in a tight arc.

Thanaton gurgled and dropped to his knees, both hands gripping his throat. Despite the tight hold, blood dripped through his fingers. For several seconds - an eternity - Lady Nox held his gaze, before he toppled forward, unconsciousness claiming him. Death would follow swiftly, Quinn knew.

“Underwhelming to the last,” Lady Nox muttered. She looked back up at Marr and inclined her head. “My lord. I trust you will find someone loyal to this nation when you replace him. I do not wish to do this again.”

She turned to leave.

“I have found someone,” Marr said to her back.

“Oh?” She paused and looked over her shoulder.

“I hereby nominate Kryn’la Sartoris, Lady Nox, to succeed the traitor Thantaon in his Council seat.”

The vote went quickly. Once again, Marr, Vowrawn, Mortis, and Decimus stood for Lady Nox. Rictus joined them. As the junior member, Baras was the last to vote. The duke stared at his former rival for several long moments, his dark eyes sharp enough to peel her skin away.

“I would have Lady Nox replace the traitor,” he said finally.

“Lady Nox, will you accept?”

“I will.” She stepped over Thanaton’s body and took her seat, her lips twisting into a smirk. “Won’t this be interesting.”

***

A day later Quinn was in his office frowning at a note that had been delivered from the Minister of Archives, indicating that his most recent search for the marriage contract had proven fruitless. Quinn sighed; he would have to look himself. The Minister was a good man, dedicated to his post, but tended to take informational requests very literally. Any minor deviations in the details of the filed documents from the details in the request flummoxed the man.

It was a characteristic Quinn had exploited for the past three weeks to delay filing of the entailment. Having it turned back against him was not pleasant. He summoned a page to carry an accession request to the minister.

The page had only just left when a knock sounded at his door. Confused, Quinn called an entrance. Few of his fellow adjutants or long-time Council members bothered to knock anymore.

The door opened to reveal Lady Nox, red hair perfectly arranged, a deep purple gown hugging her torso. Quinn stifled a sigh and stood.

“Lady Nox, I apologize. I understood an adjutant had been assigned to you already.”

“Yes.” She closed the door behind her and studied him, her hazel eyes narrowed. “That is not why I’m here.”

“Ah.” Quinn swallowed.

Most of the Council had been indifferent to the news that Quinn had married Duke Baras’s niece and entailed her holdings on her uncle. No one was particularly comfortable with the duke obtaining so much power, but the events were within established Kaasian marriage practices.

Vowrawn, for obvious reasons, had been far less sanguine on the topic. His political rivalry with Duke Baras was well known, and he made no effort to conceal his anger at Quinn for giving Baras an extremely well-placed foothold in Horuset, to say nothing of how he’d hurt Lady Thrask in the process. Marr’s reaction mirrored Quinn’s mother’s - disapproval tempered by understanding of the difficulty Quinn had inherited with his title - and he’d helped keep Quinn out of Vowrawn’s way, interceding with the Sith man on Quinn’s behalf only if interaction between the two was necessary for Council business.

If Vowrawn’s was a quiet, disappointed fury, Quinn anticipated Lady Nox’s reaction would be far more tempestuous.

“Yes.” The syllable was clipped. “I’m immensely concerned that your wife let you live, Lord Quinn.”

Directly to it, then.

“I cannot speak for Lady Thrask’s motives, Lady Nox, though I do share your surprise to some extent.”

“Lady Thrask?” Lady Nox’s lip twisted. “Does using her title make it easier to accept what you have done?”

“Of course not!”

He took a deep breath.

“I use the duchess's title,” he explained, forcing his voice back to normal, “Because she has asked me to. Honoring that request is the least I can do while I set this mess to rights.”

“It is, the barest minimum,” Lady Nox agreed. She let the derisive statement stand for a moment. “I shall humor you, Lord Quinn: How do you plan to make this right?”

Quinn paused, weighing his options. He and Lady Nox were certainly not allied in this. However, he was fairly certain the Sith noblewoman did consider herself allied with Mara. And she was certainly against Baras. In any event, Vowrawn had been unwilling to hear his plans. If Horuset’s newest noble on the Council was willing to do so, and perhaps advise him, he was willing to take the risk.

“For a start I have been delaying the filing of the entail,” he said. “It is not much, but keeping it from becoming record ties Baras’s hands in the short term.”

Lady Nox nodded thoughtfully. “Bureaucratic warfare. Interesting. I suppose that is something you would be good at,” she said, looking Quinn up and down in a manner that made it clear the statement was not meant as a compliment.

“That explains why Baras’s men have been somewhat restrained so far.” She skewered Quinn with a glare. “You were aware that men in Baras livery have clashed with Thrask retainers, yes?”  
Quinn nodded.

“I was. I have been in communication with Mr. Tremel. They appear to have the main house under something of a siege.”

“Indeed. Thanks to you, Kaasian and Horusetian blood has been spilled on Horusetian soil for the first time in over a century, and it will only get worse once that entail does go into effect. You cannot delay it forever. And that is assuming Tremel can hold Pesegam for very long without supplies.”

“I have arranged for supplies to be smuggled to Pesegam,” he replied. Lieutenant Pierce had proven resourceful on that score. “Less than they would normally have, of course, given the constraints. But enough.”

“That still only prolongs the situation, Lord Quinn. How will you end this?”

“There are legal means…” he trailed off, considering whether the minutia of contract law would be lost on his current audience. Given how Lady Nox’s toe tapped impatiently, he decided that particular information was unnecessary. “There are legal means I can employ to untie this. I need a copy of the filed marriage contract to adequately prepare.”

“And your assessment of your chances in the courts?”

Quinn paused. “Decent. Better than 50% odds, I should think.”

Lady Nox snorted. “You’ll forgive me if that is not comforting.”

“It would help to have Council support behind this endeavor.”

Silence fell for several uncomfortable minutes.

“Did you just lobby the junior Council member for assistance in cleaning up this mess?”

“Of the many mistakes I have made in this,” he ground out, “one of the most egregious has been not recognizing when I am out of my depth. I am out of my depth, Lady Nox, and it is in your interest and the interest of your people to assist me.”

“You have gall, Lord Quinn, I will give you that much.” Lady Nox studied him for three more heartbeats before nodding. “I will speak to Vowrawn and see what we can do about gathering allies. If and when we speak again, Vowrawn will be in attendance and you will have a better proposal for us than vague ‘legal means’ at your disposal.”

“It shall be done, Lady Nox,” he replied, inclining his head. “And thank you.”

“This is not for you.” Lady Nox’s voice was cold. “I could not possibly care less about you or Balmorra or your well-being. This is for Horuset. And I hope Lady Thrask leaves your miserable carcass as soon as she is able.”

Quinn stiffened.

“Which reminds me.”

She flashed across the room and around his desk so quickly he hardly saw her move; she seemed to simply materialize within arm’s length of him.

Before he could react, she drove her fist into his groin.

The air left his lungs in a painful rush and he doubled over, pain radiating through his body and holding his lungs hostage. By the time it occurred to him to look up, Lady Nox was already next to his office door, gazing at him with a satisfied smile on her face.

“On behalf of my countrymen, Lord Quinn.”

He inhaled fractionally and coughed, slamming a fist down on his desk as he tried to force his body to function again.

“Bloody… kriffing…” He wheezed.

“Oh come now, it’s not so bad,” Lady Nox chided him. “I had not decided against killing you when I came down here. Given your usefulness in untangling this, I shall respect Lady Thrask’s bizarre desire to let you live. For now.”

“I do hope you deeply impress Vowrawn and me when next we discuss this.” Her smile turned predatory. “Else you shall see just how much training your wife has missed out on living in this cesspool.”


	18. Coalescence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinn's plans begin to solidify. Baras plays his hand. Mara returns to the narrative, so to speak.

  
Gelmid Lorman, the Minister of Archives, looked up in surprise as Quinn entered the archives room. He stood hurriedly, smoothing his crisp tan tailcoat as he did so. 

“My lord Quinn! What an unexpected surprise!”

Quinn inclined his head respectfully, steeling himself for a tedious conversation. Lorman’s blue eyes held the pleased light of a man who saw far too little company in the course of his work day. Aside from pages sent on behalf of the Council and their staff, few people visited the Dromund Kaas Central Archive in person. 

“Minister Lorman, a pleasure.” Quinn forced a smile. Tedious this may be, Lorman was his best chance at present to unraveling this mess; it would not do to antagonize the man.

As Quinn spoke, Lorman seemed to remember that Quinn’s last several requests for information had come up empty.

“My lord, please accept my apologies that your queries have not met with success. Is there perhaps anything else you can tell me about the document that would help me locate it for you?”

Quinn waved the minister’s apologies away.

“That is why I decided to come myself, Minister. Might you grant me access to the registrar? I did not wish to waste your time asking you to page through each volume line by line.”

“Oh!” Lorman bowed his head apologetically. “My lord, I would be happy to grant your request but I will be leaving soon. I can grant you an appointment first thing tomorrow morning.”

Quinn grimaced; it was already late into the evening. It had taken him some time to recover from Lady Nox’s visit to his office sufficiently to venture across the building to the archive.

“My apologies, Minister. I lost track of the hour.”    


“Of course, my lord. I heard Lady Nox visited you some time ago; your tardiness is understandable.” Lorman grimaced. “The woman is a fright.”

_ You have no idea, _ Quinn thought.

“That a majority of the Council stood for that harridan.” Lorman shook his head in conspiratorial disappointment, one Kaasian man to another. “What a travesty to our Kaasian way of life. Wouldn’t you agree, my lord?”

Quinn made a noncommittal noise. He had very little affection for Lady Nox personally - especially after today - but he could not find fault with Marr for nominating her to the Council. She was a strong counterweight to Duke Baras, and for her other faults, was a patriot and war hero. That was more than could be said of some men who had occupied a Council seat over the years. 

He thanked Lorman and turned as if to leave, mind racing for ways to engage the man in conversation that would be useful to the situation at hand.

“Minister, if I may.” He turned back to Lorman. “Could you perhaps explain your cataloguing system to me? Understanding it better will help me formulate more accurate queries.”

Lorman’s eyes lit up.

“But of course, my lord. Indeed, I am flattered you should ask. So few people are men of learning as we are.”

Quinn stifled a sigh and settled in to listen.   
  
Forty-five minutes later, Lorman was finally packing up a briefcase and issuing last-minute instructions to Quinn. 

“Please do remember, my lord: if you leave the archive after I’ve locked up, you will not be able to get back in.”

“I will remember, Minister,” Quinn replied, clasping his hands behind his back to keep from physically shoving the man out the door in question. “Be at ease, your records are safe in my hands.”

“I do not doubt it, Lord Quinn. I bid you good evening.”

The door closed behind him, and Quinn immediately set to work, retrieving a heavy, leather-bound book whose spine was marked with the date range that corresponded with the date he signed the marriage contract. His eyes unfocused slightly as he opened it; each page was filled with 50 lines of text in Lorman’s cramped, precise handwriting. Each line represented a contract filed with the Kaasian government. Beginning a week or two before the signing date (in the off-chance that Duke Baras had filed a draft contract before Quinn signed the final), he began his search.

Three hours later, he turned the last marked page of the most recent registrar. Quinn ran his hands through his hair and stood, trying to contain the panic rising in his throat.

It wasn’t here. 

He’d gone through the entire last ten months of contract filings twice. The marriage contract did not exist in Lorman’s records. So far as the law was concerned, Duke Baras could, at any time, take Balmorra from him. He sank down into the chair at the thought, unsure his legs would hold him for much longer. Georgiana, his mother; their safety was a lie. Another thought followed on the heels of that one and twisted his insides painfully:

He’d hurt Mara for nothing. 

Every distasteful lie, every cowardly omission, the injuries she’d sustained from Draagh, all for nothing. He stood again and began pacing, a low, humiliated rage beginning to simmer inside him. 

_ How in the world could you be so stupid as to trust Baras to file the contract? _ The thought was his, but the voice in his mind was Mara’s.  _ You had ten months to check. _

He slammed his fist into the wall, grunting as pain blossomed in his knuckles. The sensation centered him somewhat, helping to focus his anger and panic, and a new thought flitted through his mind.

He was free. They all were. Yes, Baras could - and Quinn had no doubt he would - try to take Balmorra from him. But with that knowledge, the last hook Baras had in him dissolved. He need not worry about angering the duke or reneging on his part of the marriage contract. He could fight this however he wished.   


A sharp rap at the door yanked him back to the present.   


Frowning, Quinn opened the door slightly and found himself face to face with one of the newer pages. Quinn hadn’t had a chance to introduce himself to the lad yet.   


“Forgive me, sir,” he said quickly. “Duke Baras insisted this be filed tonight.”   


Quinn took the proffered folio from the boy, careful to maintain his nonchalance despite his heart jumping in his chest.   


“I’m sorry for bringing it so late, but he insisted.” The boy looked around before leaning toward Quinn. “Truthfully I’m glad you happened to be here, Minister. I don’t know what the duke would have done if I’d returned this to him.”   


“Duke Baras is indeed exacting,” Quinn agreed.   


“Apparently he’s been trying to file this for weeks but your office keeps finding errors in it. He’s close to strangling someone, I think.”   


“Let us hope then, for all our sakes, Duke Baras has managed to complete the document properly this time,” Quinn replied dryly.   


“Thank you again, sir.”   


“Of course.”   


Quinn watched him go, hardly daring to breathe. When the page was out of sight he closed the archive room door and looked at the folio in his hand. Surely he could not be so lucky… he opened the folio, and smiled.   


Baras had delivered the entailment document to him. Completed - Quinn’s signature was at the bottom of the document, along with a whiskey stain from when Mara threw the decanter at Draagh - but utterly unrecorded anywhere.    


As far as the law was concerned at present, Duke Baras’s foray into Horuset was illegal.   


And there was no reason, as far as Quinn could see, that it should be made legal.    


He tucked the folio under his arm and left the archive, the beginnings of a plan coalescing in his mind.   


***

The following afternoon, Quinn knocked on Lord Vowrawn’s office door in the Council building. He identified himself when Vowrawn called through the door. There were several long moments of silence. Just when Quinn was ready to declare this venture futile and seek out Lady Nox, the door opened slightly and Vowrawn’s golden eyes glowered at him through the slim opening.

“I have no desire to listen to your ridiculous plan to address this potential civil war in the courts, Quinn.”

Quinn didn’t flinch back from Vowrawn’s cold tone.

“My business is related, but that is not the plan I wish to discuss, my lord.”

“You must realize the prodigious stupidity of relying on the courts for relief in this,” Vowrawn continued. “The courts have not reversed a contract in full in over a century. Telling Lady Nox your odds are anywhere near 50% - and pretending those odds are good.” He shook his head. “You continue to surprise me, Earl Quinn.” His tone made it clear the comment was not a compliment.

“I have delayed too long in asking for help, my lord,” Quinn replied. “I have no right to ask anything of you, but I will need assistance to make this right.”

“I want Baras out of Horuset as badly as you want to climb back into his niece’s bed, I assure you. But I will not involve myself or this Council in a dispute with the courts. To do so would invite the wrath of King Vitiate as surely as someone would by feuding with the Council.”

Quinn tried not to glower at the first part of Vowrawn’s statement, whether because of the impropriety of the comment or because the mention of Mara’s bed brought to mind both the memory of holding her in his arms and the aching fear he would never do so again, he could not say. He firmly pushed the thoughts away.  _ Focus on the task at hand, Malavai _ .   


“This does not involve the courts,” he answered, his teeth clenched despite his efforts to remain calm.   


“What then?”   


Quinn pushed the folio through the narrow opening in the door and waited as the sith man eyed its contents. Vowrawn’s brows climbed to his hairline as he identified the document. By the time he focused again on Quinn his incredulity was plain to see. Quinn was far more pleased by that than he should have been. Few people truly surprised Vowrawn.   


“I think you had better come in, Lord Quinn.”   


“My thanks, Lord Vowrawn.”   


“Where exactly did you get this?”   


In the privacy of his office, Vowrawn’s tone was clipped, sharp. He sat down behind his desk and glowered at Quinn who, for his part, remained standing, having not been invited to sit. He clasped his hands behind his back and recounted the events of the night before. At length, he fell silent, and Vowrawn stared off into the middle distance for several moments, running a hand unconsciously along the edge of the folio.    


“Sit, Lord Quinn.”   


He did as bid.   


“You understand what you have done here is illegal.”   


Quinn raised an eyebrow.   


“You may jail me as soon as Horuset is stable.”   


Vowrawn sat back, his gaze having gone from cold to appraising.   


“Heavens, Baras has roused your ire, hasn’t he?”   


Quinn pressed his lips together.   


“Whatever else I may be, Lord Vowrawn, I endeavor to conduct myself in an honorable manner. Duke Baras has made a mockery of that, and of me. I will accept the consequences of my actions, I only ask you allow me to help set things right.”   


To his surprise, Vowrawn laughed. It was not quite friendly, but not fully bitter, either.   


“Of all the things to get under your skin. Of course it would be damaging your honor.” Vowrawn chuckled again, a hair warmer this time, and shook his head.   


“You have brought me an unexpected gift, Lord Quinn, and while I am still furious with you, I acknowledge that and will enjoy helping you bring Baras to heel. Now.”   
Vowrawn leaned forward and pushed the folio across the desk to Quinn. “I trust I can rely on you to keep this safe and out of Baras’s hands?”   


Quinn nodded; there was a locked drawer as well as a hidden safe in his rooms at Gorinth House.    


Out loud, he said, “Of course.”   


Vowrawn sat back.    


“We will need to be precise, but move quickly. Baras will find out at any moment that this document never made it to the proper hands. He will accelerate his plans.”   


“I should think denouncing his actions on the Council floor would be simple,” Quinn replied, incredulity in his voice. “Evidence of his incursion is everywhere. I will vehemently deny having signed any document entailing anything upon him.”   


“That is not sufficient, unfortunately. The Council is too afraid of him.”   


Quinn frowned. The majority of the Council had prayed for just such an opportunity to topple Baras for years; why would they shrink from their task now?   


“Lord Baras has accumulated… leverage,” Vowrawn said the word with a bitter smile, “over many of our esteemed Council members.”   


Quinn felt his mouth drop open.   


“You cannot be suggesting the governing body of Dromund Kaas would allow Duke Baras to run rampant to conceal bastard children or illegal financial dealings. Surely they have a stronger sense of-”   


“Duty?” Vowrawn interrupted. “My dear Lord Quinn; your naïveté has caused you quite enough trouble, I suggest you let it go immediately. However much we function as a group, there is not a man - or woman - on the Council who does not cling to their power with both hands. Under most circumstances we make that ambition work in favor of the needs of the country. Besides,” Vowrawn shrugged elegantly, “even now, most of these Council members assure themselves that, for however power hungry he is, Duke Baras is a loyal Kaasian.”    


Quinn blinked at that last statement.   


“Lord Vowrawn, is there more I should know?”   


Vowrawn grimaced, as if realizing he had said too much.   


“Not at present, I assure you. For now, Lord Quinn, guard this document with your life. And you should prepare yourself; I imagine you will be one of the first people Baras visits when he realizes the entail never made it to the archive.”   


Quinn nodded. “I have deduced as much myself. And, Lord Vowrawn, what will you be doing?”   


Vowrawn smiled.   


“I will do what I do best, Lord Quinn: gather information. I will contact you by tomorrow afternoon.”   


Quinn stood and took the folio back form Vowrawn. “Until then, my lord.”   


He hurried through the halls of the building, his eyes scanning for Baras, and exhaled fractionally when he exited the building into the spring sunlight. It was a relatively short walk to Gorinth House, and he needed some way to spend the nervous energy coiled inside him.   


And to consider the wording of the letter he needed to send to Sobrik.   


Mara would want - need - to know of these developments. The prospect of admitting the futility of his deception revived the rage of the prior evening, and he stalked through Gorinth house like a malevolent spirit, only peripherally aware of his servants shrinking from his presence.    


Several hours - and no fewer than four sheets of pristine, expensive paper scarred with poor phasing and vehemently crossed-out paragraphs - later, he folded and sealed the final version. A part of his brain lectured him for the expensive waste of paper, especially given his return to dire financial straits, but he stuffed the anxiety down. Ultimately four sheets of paper would not be his financial downfall; the cost was a drop against the sea of debt incurred by his father.    
Expressing himself correctly to Mara was worth the expense. Stars help him, he couldn’t quite give up the hope that he would earn her forgiveness.    
He handed the letter to his butler to be taken to Sobrik first thing in the morning and retired to his rooms. He kicked off his boots and collapsed into bed fully clothed, willing sleep to claim him before the memories held in this room made sleep impossible.

***

“You wished to see me, Lady Quinn?”

Mara stifled a sigh as she stood. Where Malavai had been conscientious regarding her title, his staff remained stubbornly bound to tradition. Mara had repeatedly asked Edmunds, Malavai’s steward, to call her Lady Thrask, to no avail. Indeed, the man looked positively scandalized the first time she asked. After several more embarrassing interactions on the subject she gave up, preferring to grit her teeth through a conversation rather than actively break the man to her liking. In the end, he was merely doing his duty so far as he saw it; the circumstances of her marriage were not his fault.

Still, after several weeks, his insistence had the unfortunate side effect of her adapting to being called thus despite her best efforts. With increasing frequency she had to remind herself sternly that she was the Duchess of Pesegam,  _ not _ the Countess of Balmorra, no matter what her husband’s staff called her.

“Indeed, Mr. Edmunds, do come in.” She gestured toward a chair in front of Malavai’s desk. “Please, sit.”

The steward took several steps forward and started when he saw Broonmark curled up next to the far side of the desk. He froze and Broonmark lifted his head to examine Edmunds before yawning and resuming his nap. Edmunds, for his part, halted for a moment, his gaze flitting between Mara and the hound, before sighing in resignation and taking one of the offered chairs.

Mara could not help cracking a bemused smile. Edmunds, with his sandy brown hair streaked with grey and his immaculate black tailcoat and crisp white shirt, was the very portrait of an accomplished estate agent. Given Malavai’s fastidious adherence to Kaasian mores, Mara had expected nothing less. Beyond the facade, Edmunds was indeed an excellent steward, if a bit narrow in his vision of an ideal Sobrik. That ideal clearly did not include a hound lounging in the master’s study. 

Nor did it include taking orders from the lady of the house. At least, not in the volume Mara had issued them. 

“How may I assist you today, Lady Quinn?” Edmunds’s tone was polite, but there was a distinct note of long-suffering beneath the words.

“I rode through Sobrik Village yesterday.”

“I heard, my lady,” Edmunds replied with a grimace and a slight blush. “Your visit sparked quite a reaction.”

Mara smiled pleasantly. She had no doubt of it; after she left Vette, Jaesa, and Georgiana yesterday, she saddled Fury and rode to the village still clad in breeches, her sword strapped to her hip, Broonmark trotting at her stirrup. If Edmunds was shocked at the active role Mara had assumed in running Sobrik, he must have taken to his bed at the news of Lord Quinn’s peculiar Horusetian countess riding astride into the village, her legs indecently on display, carrying a weapon.

In truth, Mara had hoped word would make it back to the old codger. Gently needling the man had become a cherished pastime. 

“I am pleased,” she replied. “But that is not why I mention it. During my ride I noticed several cottages at the edge of the village. They look as though they have been empty for some time.”

“Yes, my lady. The previous tenants were tradesmen who found better employment in Kaas City. They vacated sometime just after Lady Georgiana was born.”

Mara raised her eyebrows in surprise.

“They have sat empty for fourteen years?”

“No one has shown any interest, my lady. And as the years have passed, they have become quite unlivable.”

“So I see.” Mara sat back in her chair and steepled her fingers. “Mr. Edmunds I would like those cottages restored and tenants found for them.”

“My lady, that is a very costly endeavor-“

“To let them sit empty is a waste of land, and therefore a waste of coin, Mr. Edmunds. We can restore them, or tear them down to build something that will be used. Which do you think will require the greater amount of ready coin?”

He regarded her silently for a long moment. Mara met his gaze unflinchingly, her chin raised. She did not wish to completely antagonize the man, but nor would she brook questioning her authority.

“Were Lord Quinn’s orders pertaining to my role here unclear?” She asked softly.

“Lady Quinn, may I speak frankly?”

Mara raised an eyebrow. “You may.”

“No Countess of Balmorra has ever taken such an active role in shaping this estate. When his lordship issued those instructions, I cannot believe he meant for you to spend his coin on a whim.”

“Let me speak frankly in turn, Mr. Edmunds.” Mara’s voice was hard. “Unless you are irresponsibly ignorant of this estate’s finances, you will know the coin you speak of exists by my good grace.” Edmunds would assume she referred to a standard Kaasian dowery. Not entirely true, but close enough.

“Secondly, if you believe Lord Quinn did not know exactly what power he gave me in instructing you to defer to me, you do not know your lord nearly so well as you think. Lastly, if you cannot see the long term advantage of investing coin to make sure every living on this estate is let and generating income, you do not deserve to be here.”

She let her last sentence hang in the air for a moment.

“Are you threatening my employment, Lady Quinn?”

Mara sighed. “You are an excellent steward, Edmunds. So much so that I cannot believe you do not see the wisdom in this project. Therefore, I can only conclude you balk at the fact that it came from me. This estate is not served by an agent who allows such pettiness to interfere with his duties.” She fixed him with a hard glare. “If you persist in this course, yes, I am threatening your employment.”

Edmunds was silent for several long moments.

“I will draw up a plan for the improvements and present it to you tomorrow, Lady Quinn.”

From his tone, there was no question his cooperation was grudgingly given. It was enough for now, however. Mara nodded.

“Thank you, Mr. Edmunds. I spoke to several villagers who have family or other acquaintances who may be interested in the cottages when they are once again livable. I will send you their names so you can ask for the appropriate introductions.”

“Thank you, my lady.” A pause. “Will that be all?”

“That is all for today, Mr. Edmunds.” 

She stood, and the steward did so as well. He gave her a short, sharp bow and withdrew. As he opened the door of the study to leave, he nearly collided with Malavai’s mother in his haste to leave. He sputtered an apology and scurried away.

“I see you’ve been terrorizing Mr. Edmunds again,” Lady Quinn commented with a good-natured wink as she closed the door behind her. She spared a glance at Broonmark as she sat down and arranged her skirts.

Mara chuckled. 

“He makes it rather easy.”

“He does indeed. Edmunds is a good steward and he respects competence. He will come to recognize your authority in time. Kaasian women do not typically take such an active role in managing their husbands’ estates.”

Mara raised an eyebrow and remained silent.

“Don’t glare at me like that,” Lady Quinn chided her. “I do not question your abilities, nor am I defending Edmunds in his biases; you will need to keep him strongly in hand, which I see you are already doing. Given time, however, I know he will soften toward you.”

“You do not seem the type to let the estate’s management fall to others, Lady Quinn. How did you manage him?”

“My talents were different. I managed Rymar; he in turn managed Edmunds to my liking. It is the Kaasian lady’s way, and it worked in some respects. In others…” Lady Quinn trailed off and grimaced. “I did not have the late earl nearly as in hand as I thought.”

“I am sorry,” Mara said softly. “It must have been the worst surprise on top of losing him.”

“I had no inkling,” Lady Quinn agreed. “He had always been ebullient with a tendency toward extravagance. Frankly that quality was part of his charm in his youth. Georgiana has much of his personality, but she’s been tempered by her brother’s example.” Lady Quinn smiled fondly, her thoughts clearly turned inward. She shook herself and focused on Mara again. “But his gambling didn’t get out of hand until he was elected to Revan’s.”

Mara could not hold back a snort at the name. Revan, the legendary warrior whose identity was so lost to history their gender and nation of origin could not be conclusively proven, though the legacy of their exploits remained in the world. Dromund Kaas had, in typical Kaasian faction, claimed the hero as its own, remolding the historical figure into an ideal Kaasian man. The club that bore his name was the oldest in Kaas City, and the most conservative. Her uncle was a member, of course, and had been for decades.

That thought jarred Mara back to present.

“The late Lord Quinn was a member of Revan’s?”

Lady Quinn nodded. “He was elected rather late for such things. I understand your uncle became one of Rymar’s greatest champions amongst the other members after a chance meeting.”

“And then became his sole creditor.”

Lady Quinn cocked her head, a frown furrowing her dark brows. “Indeed. Surely you don’t think… My dear, no one could plan that far ahead.”

“You don’t know my uncle, Lady Quinn.” The first debt agreement was signed eight years ago. “It is entirely possible Duke Baras simply wanted the late earl indebted to him in case such a debt would ever become useful. But I was sixteen then. I know he had already begun to contemplate marrying me off.”

Lady Quinn regarded her for a long moment.

“I hope you’re wrong.”

“So do I,” Mara replied honestly. If she weren’t, her uncle so easily forgiving Balmorra’s debt made little sense, and thus he would not be finished with Malavai and his family just yet.

“There is little point in worrying about it just yet, I suppose. Unless that is why you are so keen on pushing Edmunds to let those cottages as soon as possible.”

Mara nodded. “As much as my uncle has hurt me, this has seemed rather too simple. It seemed prudent to make Balmorra as strong as possible should he have another card to play. I sincerely hope it will not be necessary.”

Lady Quinn stood. Mara started to follow suit, but Lady Quinn waved her back to her seat.

“You are well-suited to that chair, my dear.” She sighed ruefully and shook her head. “That my son could choose so well and still blunder so badly.”

Mara chuckled before she could stop herself. “Perhaps there’s a touch of his father in him after all.”

Lady Quinn raised her eyebrows, and Mara realized with a start her tone had been fond, rather than angry. The anger was still there, of course. She was not entirely sure where that warmth of feeling had come from.

Her mother-in-law was still gazing at her, her brown eyes knowing. 

“It occurs to me, Mara, that your task is far harder than mine was.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Rymar died before his actions hurt his family. I did not have to decide whether to forgive him enough to want him in my life.”

Mara looked down at the papers strewn across her desk.  _ No, Malavai’s desk _ , she reminded herself firmly. She bit the inside of her cheek, unsure what to say next. After a moment, she heard Lady Quinn open the study door.

“Lady Quinn.”

The older woman paused and turned toward her.

“For what it is worth, I am happy Malavai was able to keep you and Georgiana safe. I would not want the price of my freedom to be your ruin.”

Her mother-in-law smiled.

“It would be a lie to say I am not relieved as well.” Her smile became gentle. “But that is not enough to forgive his actions. Georgiana and I both know that and will support you in whatever choice you make as to your relationship with Malavai.”

_ Is this what it’s like to have a mother? _ The thought flashed unbidden to her mind. She pushed it back.

“Thank you, Lady Quinn.”

“You may call me Henrietta, if you wish.”

“Thank you,” Mara replied slowly. “I’m not comfortable with that just yet.”

“Of course.”

With another smile, Lady Quinn left the room. 

Mara stared at the closed door for several long minutes, unable to decide whether her talk with Lady Quinn had been helpful. 

Her life would be simplified immeasurably if she could simply decide whether the warmth she felt for this family were worth the pain they had inadvertently caused her.

***

Unsurprisingly, Vowrawn had been correct in his assessment of Duke Baras’s eagerness to see Quinn in the wake of the entailment mysteriously vanishing. The following morning, Quinn had just broken his fast and read a letter from his steward at Sobrik - a missive he was sure Edmunds meant to paint an unfavorable portrait of Mara’s activities, but instead only intensified the ache of her absence - when Jillins entered and announced the duke’s arrival at Gorinth House. Baras strode into the parlor, a genial smile on his lips that did not reach his dark eyes.   


“Duke Baras. Won’t you come in?” Quinn’s voice was flat, even to his own ears. “I can summon refreshment if you’ve not yet broken your fast.”   


Baras waved the offer away.   


“No thank you, Lord Quinn.” He looked around ostentatiously. “Is my niece here? I had hoped to find out how her first month of marriage has progressed.”   


Quinn pressed his lips together. There was no way Baras actually believed Mara was in the house.   


“The countess is not in residence, no. Please, sit.”   


It was a breach of protocol to sit first, but Quinn found he no longer cared. Baras hesitated only a moment before taking the chair Quinn had gestured toward.   


“Indeed. Is she proving a handful? I am happy to speak with her again on your behalf.” The smile on Baras’s face turned Quinn’s stomach.   


“My wife's whereabouts are no business of yours, your grace.” He replied, the words forced through his clenched jaw. “And you will not glean any further intelligence on that subject from me. Did you have other business in coming here?”   


“I see Maranel’s rudeness has spread to you as well. Take care, Lord Quinn. Some may forgive her impropriety based on her heritage, but no such leniency will be granted to you.”    


When Quinn said nothing, he continued, “But you are correct that I have business with you other than verifying my niece’s wellbeing. I filed the entailment two nights ago. There has been some bureaucratic nonsense, of which I am sure you are unaware, but all was finally in order.”   


“Glad to hear it,” Quinn replied nonchalantly.   


“Are you indeed?” Baras was no longer smiling. “You of course then would know nothing about the fact that the entailment document has since gone missing?”   


“Missing? Surely not. Minister Lorman is an exceptionally thorough man.”   


“He is, Lord Quinn, he is.” Baras leaned forward, the posture vaguely menacing. “Unfortunately, it would appear he was not on duty at the archive when my page delivered the document.”   


“The minister has many deputies, Duke Baras. I'm sure they will find your document soon enough.”   


“None of those deputies bear any physical resemblance to you, Quinn.”   


Quinn let his eyes widen in surprise. “I confess I had never made a study of them, your grace.”   


Baras clenched a fist. “My page said he delivered the document to someone and gave a description that sounded uncannily like you.”   


Quinn leaned back in his seat, crossed one leg over the other, and picked up his coffee cup from the side table.   


“I am not the only dark-haired man in Kaas City your grace.”   


“Blast it, Quinn, I know it was you who received the document.”   


“Do you, now?”  Quinn asked, raising the cup to his lips.   


“You must realize stealing from the archive is a major offense.”   


“Indeed it is. Fortunately I have not the pleasure of understanding what you’re talking about.”   


“I know you met with Lorman just before he left. I know you fancy yourself in love with my fool niece. Quinn, if you do not reveal the location of that document I will ruin you. You will sit in prison for the next ten years at least for tampering with state records.”   


Quinn barked a laugh. He could not help it.   


“And you will tell the Council what? That I have absconded with a document that was the key to preserving my estate? Surely no one would believe such fiction.”   


Baras had gone red-faced. He was silent for a moment, then shrugged and stood.    


“Quinn, I will require a payment schedule for your father’s outstanding debts, along with thirty percent of the total as a good-faith payment, by the end of next week.”   


Thirty percent of his father’s debt was an amount of ready coin Quinn had never even seen. Even the least scrupulous usurers were kinder than that. Aside from that observation, made with analytical detachment, Quinn was surprised to find he had no reaction to Baras’s demand.    


“The marriage contract specifically forgave my debts, Baras,” he said instead.   


“The archive loses things all the time, Lord Quinn, as you so eloquently have illustrated.”   


“I see.”    


Quinn stood and crossed to the parlor door and opened it. Jillins, alert as ever (his attention had increased markedly since Quinn reprimanded him all those months ago), stepped into the room.    


“I bid you good day, your grace,” Quinn said shortly with a minute bow of his head. “Jillins, you will show Duke Baras out.”   


“I have never seen a man make so many mistakes in so short a conversation. I shall enjoy taking everything from you.” Baras glared at Jillins, who shrank back slightly. 

“I know my own way out.”   


Quinn threw up an arm, blocking the door.   


“Be that as it may, until such time as the courts grant you custody of Balmorra, Gorinth House and Sobrik are mine, and you will not set foot in either house so long as I am living.” He skewered Jillins with a hard stare. “Jillins, escort the Duke to his carriage.”   


“You and Maranel truly deserve one another, Lord Quinn.”   


“I could only hope to be so lucky, Duke Baras.”   


The duke’s only reply was a sharp, bitter laugh. Without another word, he allowed Jillins to herd him out of the parlor and up the hall toward the house’s front door.   
Quinn closed the parlor door and exhaled, his heart pounding as the enormity of what he had just done settled in. He hurried to his desk to begin a new series of letters.   


***

Mara looked up at the sound of a knock on the study door.  That would be Edmunds, hopefully back with a plan for the cottage restoration project and not with more reasons as to why he felt comfortable ignoring her orders. She stood and crossed to the door. Even that short walk felt good; she’d been wrapped up in estate business all morning. Georgiana teased her at dinner the prior evening that she’d taken up a permanent residence in Malavai's study.   


The girl was not completely wrong. Mara knew Sobrik did not need quite as active a hand as she had applied to it. But it was a puzzle the likes of which she could solve and so was soothing.   


With that in mind, she resolved to be a bit kinder with Edmunds.   


“Mr. Edmunds, you are early-”   


Mara cut off when she found herself faced not with Edmunds’s disapproving visage, but the sarcastic smirk of Lady Nox.   


“Lady Nox, I… Forgive me, I was expecting Malavai’s steward.” Mara looked up and down the hall warily. “What did you do to my butler?”   


“He walks slowly for one with such long legs,” Lady Nox replied.   


No sooner were the words out of her mouth when Hawk appeared in the hall, slightly out of breath.   


“Lady Nox for you, my lady,” he gasped.   


Mara chuckled.   


“That is quite alright Hawk. Do go fetch yourself a glass of water.” She looked down at the sith woman before her. “Won’t you come in?”   


They settled themselves on a settee in the corner of the study.    


“What brings you to Sobrik, Lady Nox?”   


“The entailment. Honestly, what else would bring me to this backwater?”    


The red-haired woman’s eyes were sharp as she regarded Mara.    


“I must say it surprises me you would have to ask,” she said finally.   


Mara pressed her lips together, annoyed with herself.    


“I am sorry, you merely caught me off guard.”   


“At any rate, I suppose you know I have been named to the Council.”   


Mara started.   


“No, I did not.” She grinned. “Who did you have to kill to make that happen?”   


“Thanaton,” came the nonchalant reply. Mara stared for several moments before she realized Lady Nox was completely serious.   


“How in the world did you manage that?”    


That sharp, appraising gaze returned.    


“Doesn’t that fool earl of yours keep you informed of developments that could affect your prospects?”   


Mara blushed and clenched her jaw.   


“I have not been in correspondence with Lord Quinn.” Her voice was cold.   


“That is understandable, I suppose, but seems counter-productive. At any rate, I uncovered treason, and Thanaton played a key role in it. The idiot attacked me on the floor of the Council rather than go to trial.”   


Mara digested that for a moment. “This pertains to the retreat from Corellia.”   


“The same,”Lady Nox replied. “Thanaton had a former ward living in the city who just so happened to be the leader of the Jedi who were the vanguard of the Republic assault on the city.”   


“I do not doubt your evidence, Lady Nox, but Thanaton does not seem the type to conceive of such a plot on his own,” Mara said slowly.    


“Indeed not. It took a few weeks, but I had General Heskar send some scouts to observe Miss Injaye’s surviving family - she had a husband, you see, and two children.” 

She met Mara’s gaze straight on. “The townspeople report the family is receiving a healthy amount of coin every month from a mysterious benefactor. The Corellian  government has no provision for widower’s pensions.”   


“A conspirator still lives,” Mara said thoughtfully. “Someone in the Republic, perhaps?”   


Lady Nox shook her head. “I doubt it; there’s no evidence of correspondence between Thanaton or anyone in his household and anyone in the Republic aside from Injaye. No, that coin is coming from Dromund Kaas.”   


“I believe it is coming from your uncle.”   


Mara’s mouth dropped open. Duke Baras was a horrid man on every front, but treason?    


“He’s the only nobleman with that much coin to spare who also had access to Thanaton and our battle plans. You told me yourself he seemed to immediately assume Vengean would not be returning from Corellia.”   


“But what would he gain from this? It is risky, too risky for him to undertake on a whim.”   


“Power? Your uncle seems to need power like most of us need oxygen.”   


“But this much power? If this is true, he would be in a position to challenge…” she trailed off, her eyes going wide with horror.   


“To challenge King Vitiate himself, yes,” Lady Nox finished.   


Mara squeezed her eyes shut and took a breath. That this was not beyond the realm of possibility did not make it true.   


“We need to find proof of this, if it exists.”   


Lady Nox opened her mouth to reply, but cut off when the study door opened and Edmunds poked his head into the room.   


“Forgive me, Edmunds,” Mara said quickly, rushing to the door to bundle the man back into the hallway. “A friend from Horuset wished to pay her respects. I will send for you when I am available.”   


She closed the door firmly on Edmunds’s protests and turned to face Lady Nox, who stared at her incredulously.   


“I’m sorry, are you actually  _ running _ this estate?” She demanded.   


Mara frowned. “Of course I am why would I not?”   


“That was the steward, was it not?”   


“Yes.”   


“Isn’t it his job to run this estate in Lord Quinn’s absence?”   


“Yes, but-”   


“By all the gods,” Lady Nox gasped, cutting her off and standing. “You’re hiding here.”   


Mara clenched her fists. “I am doing no such thing. In case you had not remembered, I lost everything quite recently. I merely need time to plan my next move.”   


“So plan it,” Lady Nox retorted. “Instead of sitting here worrying over the drainage or the garden or whatever inconsequential project you’re wasting time on.”   


“I needed  _ time _ ,” Mara insisted. How to explain without admitting to another sith how much Malavai had hurt her?   


“Someone you trusted hurt you and that is awful, but you are the Duchess of Pesegam and your holdings are under attack; wallowing in self pity is not a luxury you  have.”   


Lady Nox shook her head in disgust. “I do believe I owe your husband an apology for believing he was the one who needed to be beaten into action. And you must know I hate apologizing to Kaasian nitwits for anything.”   


“What did you do?” Mara demanded, her stomach twisting.    


“I gave him some proper sith encouragement is all,” Lady Nox replied with an impish smile.    


“He is not sith!” Mara yelled, surprised by how angry this news made her.   


“Please, he’s a grown man who has nearly sparked a civil war. He took it rather well considering his soft, Kaasian upbringing. And now that I’ve seen you both it would seem he is the more sith of the pair of you.”   


“How dare you,” Mara growled, taking a menacing step forward.   


Lady Nox did not even flinch.   


“He, fool he may be, is actually trying to do something about the fact that your uncle has your lands under siege. That Kaasian twit is exploiting every favor ever owed him to keep your estate supplied while you sit in the country playing house.”   


“I must confess, Lady Quinn, I had no idea you were such a coward.”   


The last syllable of that sentence ended in a grunt when Mara’s fist connected with Lady Nox’s face. The shorter woman lurched backward a step in surprise, her hands already coming up in a defensive posture. She grinned.   


“Excellent. Shall we?”   


Mara barked a short laugh in reply but held back, circling the shorter woman warily. Lady Nox  struck without warning, her fists moving efficiently in a series of sharp jabs. Mara blocked one, then two, then gasped and staggered when Lady Nox’s palm slammed into her chest. She heard herself chuckle as she regained control of her breath, and struck.   


Lady Nox blocked both punches easily and swung her right fist to counterattack. Mara grabbed her arm in her right hand and yanked, twirling the shorter woman in a violent parody of a dance step until her back was against Mara's front, and shoved with all her strength. Lady Nox stumbled and collapsed onto low table in front of the settee. Her grunt was punctuated by the sharp crack of wood splintering.   


“Are you done?” Mara taunted.   


Lady Nox righted herself in the blink of an eye. She stalked quickly toward Mara, a growl starting as she drew back her fist. Several more blocks, even that impact beginning to wear on Mara’s forearms. Her form faltered slightly and she cried out as pain blossomed in her side - the same side where Draagh had cut her - and the heel of Lady Nox’s hand collided with her cheek.    


She staggered against the desk, several papers scattering to the floor as she scrabbled for purchase and pushed herself upright.   


“That depends” Lady Nox replied airily. “Are you ready to act like a kriffing sith?”   


Mara yelled and lashed out with a knee, then an elbow. She landed another blow on the shorter woman’s face and just barely managed to catch Lady Nox’s right hook, grabbing her forearm in a vice grip. She laughed and her hand flashed out, grabbing the other woman’s face and shoving her backward, fully intending to end the fight.    


Lady Nox stumbled back, as expected, but her hand locked around Mara’s wrist and she yanked.

They hit the settee table together. With a final crack, the legs gave way and the table collapsed beneath them.   


Mara let out a cry as the impact jolted through her bones, hysterical laughter beginning to bubble out of her.   


Lady Nox met her gaze and began to giggle as well.   


“Edmunds already hates me,” Mara wheezed. “I cannot wait to see his face when he finds out we were brawling in here. This table is probably an antique or family heirloom.”   


“You have a way with Kaasian men, Lady Thrask,” Lady Nox gasped in reply. “I’ll give you that.”   


They sat up gingerly. Mara knew she would be covered in bruises again, but the overall damage was far less than her fight with Draagh.   


“Lady Thrask, I don’t care what you do with that fool husband of yours. Leave him, stay… I certainly would leave, but it is your choice. But don’t lie to yourself saying you’re doing anything other than hiding here. Your people need you; if you can’t answer that call, at least say so honestly.”   


Mara winced, not quite able to meet the other woman’s gaze.   


“I don’t know if I can beat him, Lady Nox. I thought I had considered every eventuality, and he still won easily. The plot was in front of my face the entire time and I didn’t see it.”   


“You have allies now you did not before, and Baras’s actions have left him vulnerable. All I need is proof of his treason, and proof he has been blackmailing Council members for years.”   


“His study,” Mara mused. “Anything of use - records, letters - would be locked in his study.”   


“Baras won’t let me within a kilometer of his home, Lady Thrask. But you know every way in or out.”   


“And I have contacts inside who would help,” Mara said slowly, considering. At length she turned back to Lady Nox. “I will join you in Kaas City tomorrow.”   


“Sith encouragement,” Lady Nox said with a grin as she stood and offered Mara her hand. “Nothing improves behavior with more alacrity.”   


Mara laughed and accepted her assistance.   


“Perhaps. Still,” her hand tightened around Lady Nox’s, “if you lay a hand on Malavai again, I will kill you.”   


Lady Nox held her gaze for a long moment.   


“Call me Kryn.”   


“I beg your pardon?”   


“I will rescind the offer if I have to say it again.”   


“If you wish, Kryn, but why…?”   


“I like you. For some reason.”   


She turned and moved toward the door as if that were all the explanation needed.   


“Give Lord Quinn my regards,” she called over her shoulder.

***

Mara stood in the center of the study, her thoughts racing.

Treason.

Oh, Duke Baras would never betray Dromund Kaas to Coruscant or its allies. But gather sufficient power to rule Dromund Kaas as he saw fit, supplanting even King Vitiate? That Mara could believe. And Baras would, Mara knew, use anyone, even a Correllian major, to achieve his ends.

If Lady Nox’s - Kryn’s - suspicions were correct, Balmorra was indeed still in danger, for Baras would need complete control over the nation’s ability to arm itself. She sighed and made her way back to her desk -  _ Malavai’s desk _ \- and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper.

She needed to know what was happening in Kaas City and, despite the bitterness she felt about it, she had to warn Malavai about her uncle.

She had just written a salutation when a knock sounded at the door, and Mrs. Brimble announced herself. Mara called an entrance.

“My lady, I-“

She cut off as she took in the collapsed table in front of the settee, and the papers strewn on the floor. Mara grimaced.

“Did your visit with Lady Nox go poorly, Lady Quinn?”

“A minor disagreement only. I apologize, I should have sent for you the minute Lady Nox left,” Mara said, unable to keep the guilty tone out of her voice. “I’m afraid we behaved rather like brutes.”

“I see.” Mrs. Brimble’s lips twitched; whether to hide a frown or a laugh, Mara was not completely certain. “Will you be entertaining Horusetian nobles often, my lady?”

Mara laughed.

“I don’t expect so, Mrs. Brimble. I will warn you if that changes. And,” she smiled, “should that eventuality come to pass, I’m sure we can arrange a lovely garden party rather than have everyone in the house.”

Mrs. Brimble laughed softly.

“I will bring some footmen to clean this up as soon as you are finished. I should think we ought to keep this from Mr. Edmunds?”

“Indeed, I would appreciate that,” Mara replied. “Did you have need of me?”

The housekeeper shook herself and pulled a sealed letter from the pocket of her apron.

“This arrived for you from Gorinth House, my lady.”

Mara stared at the letter for a moment, at her name written in Malavai’s precise hand, before accepting it.

“Thank you, Mrs. Brimble. If you would not mind…”

“I’ll leave you to your letters, my lady.”

Mara thanked the woman and waited until the door closed behind her. She hesitated, residual anger and longing warring within her, before breaking the seal with shaking hands.

It was longer than his last letter, announcing his departure from Sobrik. Mara sank down into her chair as she read. He delivered the news that Lady Nox had brought personally, and, more importantly, detailed his conversation with her uncle. 

Mara closed her eyes, sympathy mixing with her anger and loneliness. Everything he’d done had been in vain. How he must be hating himself right now. The thought gave her no pleasure.

She kept reading, and frowned at the last passage: “My one comfort in all this is the duke, in playing his hand, no long holds any power over you. You are free to act as you need to. I beg you to allow me to assist you in any way I can, but will accept any boundary you set.”

She hadn’t told Malavai of Vette and Jaesa’s escape. It was odd for him to forget such a detail.

She pushed that thought aside. Malavai was correct; in revealing this last card, her uncle signaled an acceleration of his plans. He would come for Balmorra next, and soon. If she and the others were here when he did, she had no doubt they would wind up as hostages.

She had already committed to being in Kaas City tomorrow, but as Mara sat with this new information, she decided delaying even that long could be costly. She yanked the bellpull and rose to pace, and to plan.


	19. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mara joins Quinn in Kaas City. Plans are lain, feels are had.

A door opened and closed, and suddenly Gorinth House was filled with the chatter of several women’s voices. Quinn frowned, listening for a moment, and turned back to the ledgers in front of him; perhaps one of the cooks was receiving a delivery of some kind.

He looked up again at a sudden incessant barking. Could one of the fool servants have brought a dog into his house? He heard running footsteps that seemed to be pursuing the barking, and suddenly the house was quiet again, if still alive with the chatter of whomever was visiting. He paused, debating whether to check in on his staff, but the sound was not repeated, and so he went back to glaring at his work, looking for room in his lands’ revenue to compile Baras’s ridiculous demand of a thirty percent payment on his father’s debt. It was a puzzle - a dire puzzle, to be sure - but one that soothed his mind even as he knew he would come up short. The rest of the world faded into the background once more.

“I am certain your ledger does not deserve nearly so much of your ire, Malavai.”

He jumped, his hand smearing the still-wet ink on the figures he was working through. A small chuckle, quickly silenced, flitted across the room in response to his surprise. He looked up.

Mara stood just inside the door to his study - how had she opened and closed it without him hearing? - amber eyes sparkling and dark hair pulled back from her face. It still flowed freely down her back, the Sith equivalent of half-mourning, he guessed, and her full lips were pressed together as if she were holding back a laugh.

He knew he was staring open-mouthed at her, but such was his shock at seeing her here, in his home - their home - he could not help himself. His eyes travelled downward and he blushed; she wore a waistcoat that brought to mind the tight bodices of her Horusetian gowns, high neck and bare arms, and breeches. Her curves were on full display, amplified by the insolent cock of her hip.

Her hand rested on the hilt of a saber, and he saw the butt of a pistol holstered on her other hip.

“Lady Thrask,” he stammered, standing. “No one advised me you would be visiting Kaas City today.”

“That is most likely because I did not inform anyone of that fact. This trip was a last-minute decision.”

“I see, and,” he paused, “and you rode through the Kaas City streets…”

“In breeches?” She raised her eyebrows. “I did indeed.”

_Does that excite you, my lord?_

Her voice came unbidden to his mind, from that first week of their acquaintance. It took him a moment to realize his memory had been jogged because her eyes held a measure of the same flirtatious challenge now that they had then.

As he searched for a reply, she seemed to remember the events of the past month and her face went blank, the twinkle fading from her eyes.

“I came to speak with you, in fact,” she said, crossing the room to his desk and sitting down in the chair opposite his. “I got your letter.”

He sighed and resumed his seat, forcing himself to look her in the eye.

“I thought nothing could be worse than knowing how I betrayed you. To know it was for naught,” he looked away for a moment, searching for words. There were none, really. None that could alleviate what he’d done.

“I am sorry, your grace,” he said, meeting her gaze again. “It does nothing to say it but I have no other words-”

He cut off when she held up a hand.

“Malavai,” her voice was surprisingly gentle, all things considered. “I did not come here to wring additional apologies from you.” She grimaced and her voice became cold. “As much as they may be warranted, I came to ask what you plan to do.”

He blinked.

“I’m sorry?”

“How will you answer my uncle’s demands? That initial payment is ludicrous, but if we,” she cut off. “If you can make that, the payment structure could be managed, I believe, with some changes to your estate and factories.”

He stared at her. Why in the world would she ask him about this?

“I took the liberty of examining your ledgers before I left Sobrik,” she continued, reaching for the bound volume he’d been working from. “They are a bit out of date, of course, but I believe if we sell-”

She looked up and caught him staring.

“What?”

“Lady Thrask, please. You don’t have to do this. I will find a way through Duke Baras’s demands.”

She leaned back in her chair and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Have you always been this infuriating?” She asked after a moment of silence.

He had no reply to that. After another moment she looked up at him, dropping her hand into her lap.

“In the heat of your guilt you forget: this affects me, too. My fate is tied to yours; you made sure of that.”

“Forgive me, I-”

“And Georgiana and Lady Quinn,” she interrupted. “Do you expect me to sit back and watch as their lives are destroyed by my uncle? Do you truly think I am so petty?”

“Of course not! I know I have no right to ask anything of you; how can I when I have hurt you so?”

“You could have kept me informed!” She shot back, leaning forward. “Let me decide whether I want to help you, but do not take everything from me and then leave me in the country blind to what is happening. I can’t protect them if you do not tell me what we are facing.”

He realized he was leaning into the back of his chair, surprised by her outburst, and more than a little confused.

Truthfully, Mara’s face mirrored his, as if she were shocked by the words she had shouted.

“I was trying to give you the space you so obviously wanted,” he replied.

There was annoyance in his voice and he could not quite purge it. He did not begrudge her anger in general, but he was not prepared to face it for doing exactly what she asked of him.

She glared at him for several long minutes.

“Should I have written you earlier?” he asked.

“No. I didn’t want to hear from you.” She sighed, her shoulders slumping. “That was unfair of me.” She stared past him, her thoughts clearly focused inward. “Lady Nox visited this morning. She had so much news, all of which affected me, and she was shocked I hadn’t heard any of it. Your letter arrived after she left. I hate that I had to hear it from her first.”

There were several moments of silence, and then she skewered him to his chair with a sharp look.

“You have been supplying Pesegam despite my uncle’s siege.”

He nodded, surprised in the change in topic.

“Yes. I needed to buy time to deal with the entailment.”

“And you have been working with Kryn and Vowrawn on the legalities of the entailment overall.”

He frowned at her use of Lady Nox’s given name, but nodded again.

She cocked her head and studied him.

“Malavai, do you _want_ me to remain angry with you?”

He felt his mouth drop open.

“You know I don’t want that.”

“Then why would you not involve me? Why would you not _tell me_ that you are trying to correct what you’ve done?”

“I had no idea what was feasible; I did not wish to raise false hope,” he replied, leaning across the desk a little. “And I did not wish to,” he paused, searching for words. “I did not wish to perform my atonement for you. I simply wanted to make things right.”

She studied him silently for several long moments, some of the fear he remembered from the day of his betrayal once again showing on her face.

“I am the Duchess of Pesegam,” she said, her amber eyes wide and searching his intently.

“Yes, your grace,” he agreed.

“My estate, my people… they need me.” She took a shuddering breath. “Do they not?”

He frowned.

“Of course they do.”

“I have a duty to them, Malavai. Please.” His heart clenched as she said the word. “Please don’t take that from me as well.”

She seemed to curl in on herself defensively, appearing impossibly small and vulnerable in her chair.

“No, Lady Thrask, that was never my intent.”

He leaned forward and reached for her, halting awkwardly at the last moment before they touched. She stared at his hands for a long moment, her face unreadable, before sliding her own hands off the desk and into her lap. He cursed himself internally for the misstep but forged on.

“I must assure you, whatever good I have done for Pesegam, I am an extremely poor substitute for its mistress. I will share my correspondence with Mr. Tremel with you, and seek your direction on everything relating to this matter going forward.”

She nodded.

“Very well. And I will help you deal with my uncle. Do we have an accord?”

He inclined his head.

“We do, your grace.”

“Good.”

She sniffled quietly and her posture straightened.

“However, if all goes to plan, you will not need to deal with my uncle financially at all.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Did Vowrawn not tell you?”

He shook his head.

“Odd. Though I suppose it makes sense since their suspicions have not been confirmed. There is evidence Duke Baras was involved in Lord Vengean’s death.”

He gasped. For a moment his mind seemed immersed in fog. Despite the hints Vowrawn had dropped two days ago, it defied all logic; of course Duke Baras was not a traitor. And yet, he benefited precipitously from Vengean’s death, and his designs on other nobles’ estates fit a certain pattern that was obvious now that Mara had suggested the possibility.

“Balmorra is the final piece,” Mara said, as if she’d heard him. “With our estates together he can arm himself to fight internally, or move to weaken Dromund Kaas against external threats. Ryloth gives him a deep supply of labor to press into service,” she twisted her lip around the words. “To say nothing of its coffers.”

“What evidence do you have? Simply because this is feasible does not make it true.”

She smiled faintly.

“Indeed. I will need to search his study for anything incriminating.”

“You what?”

His voice rose on the last word, every moment of her fight with Draagh flashing through his mind again.

“I know,” she said softly, clearly following his line of thought. “I will not fight Draagh unless I have to. I grew up in that house, Malavai. I can sneak in and find what we need.”

He nodded slowly.

“And you are confident you will find it?”

“I am.”

“And if you don’t? If it doesn’t exist?”

She regarded him for a long moment.

“We both know my uncle is dangerous even if he is not a traitor,” she said finally. “He must be brought to heel.”

“I see.”

He leaned back in his chair, his posture mirroring hers as he considered. If Baras were loyal, everything they were discussing was treason, no matter how dangerous he was. When he joined the King’s Arm, Quinn swore to uphold Dromund Kaas and defend it from enemies and threats both internal and external. He’d sworn an oath of protection to the Council.

And he’d sworn an oath to her.

“I agree Duke Baras is a threat and that his actions put him at odds with Dromund Kaas’s security,” he said finally. “I will support you in this no matter the outcome, Lady Thrask.”

She smiled the first unreserved smile he’d seen since he betrayed her.

“Thank you.”

“I hope you will not mind, I brought your mother and Georgiana with me,” she said, her voice brisk. “If my uncle is arming for a coup, I doubt he will wait until next week to lay claim to Sobrik. I could not risk them becoming hostages.”

“Of course I do not mind,” he replied, relief rushing through him. “I thank you for looking out for their wellbeing. I will have their rooms made up, and have rooms made up for Vette and Jaesa.”

Mara frowned. “How did you know they were with me?”

“Georgiana wrote to me,” he replied, hoping the response was smooth enough for his panic to go unnoticed.  
She merely nodded, however.

“I have arranged for a luncheon to be served in the dining room. We need to move quickly on this, if we are to stay ahead of my uncle.”

“Vowrawn said the same thing,” he replied. His eyes widened as a sudden thought occurred to him. “I think it might be prudent to bring Lady Nox and Lord Vowrawn here to Gorinth House for the foreseeable future. If Duke Baras is looking to silence his opposition, the Sith members of the Council would be his first target, I should think.

Mara cursed.

“You’re right, of course. Is the Council in session today at all?”

He shook his head.

“They have taken a spring recess. I will send Jillins to Lord Vowrawn’s immediately. I believe Lady Nox has taken up residence in part of his house as she refuses to purchase a living of her own in the city.” He could not keep the annoyance out of his voice at that last fact.

Mara made no comment; she simply nodded and reached across the desk to pick up the smeared page he’d been working on when she made her presence known.

“Get that note written. I would like to look at these figures.”

***

“Malavai looks so tired,” Georgiana murmured to Mara, her blue eyes fixed on her brother as he stood deep in conversation with Vowrawn. “He barely protested when I insisted on joining you all.”

She was right. Mara had to stifle every instinct to reach out to him when she first saw him in his study: paler than usual, dark circles under his eyes, his cheekbones a bit sharper than she remembered. Somehow he had fared worse than she during their separation. A part of her took pleasure in that fact.

But it was drowned out by concern.

“The housekeeper says he barely eats; he spends all his time at the Council building or in his study.” Georgiana continued. She shook her head. “I should have written to him.”

Mara jerked her gaze down to her sister-in-law.

“You haven’t written to him since he left Sobrik?”

Georgiana looked up at her, blushing guiltily. “I was too angry. Recriminating letters seemed counterproductive, but I found I could not write about my life as usual without reprimanding him for his actions. You sound surprised.”

“I know how you care for him. I’m sorry I have caused a rift between you,” she said. “Georgiana, you must know I have no wish to turn you against your brother.”

She stared across the room, something in her softening as she considered that it had been he who made sure Vette and Jaesa escaped the Citadel, whether by seeing to it himself or setting events in motion. He could not know of their escape otherwise.

Of course he would consider it a point of honor not to inform her. She shook her head, bemused.

A footman appeared, ushering Pierce into the room. He looked odd out of uniform, in a wrinkled tailcoat and breeches that ended at his uniform boots.

“Now that we are all here,” Mara said, silencing the room. “I suggest we begin.”

“You have all heard the allegations against Duke Baras and know we are assembled to stop him,” she continued as the group arranged themselves on the sofas and various chairs of the parlor. “Presumably you are here because you agree with that goal. However, if that is not true I suggest you leave now. No one will stop you.”

Silence filled the room. Mara reached down to stroke Broonmark, who had curled up between her feet and Georgiana’s.

“It’s about time someone got after Baras,” Pierce put in. “Seems fitting it’d be you, Nel.”

“I want him out of Ryloth,” Vette growled.

“This infighting must stop,” Malavai said quietly. He and Vowrawn were seated on either side of the cigar table. “We remove Baras and it ends now; we move forward together.”

He fixed both Vowrawn and Nox with a hard stare.

“And you get your beloved Balmorra back, no strings attached,” Nox replied sweetly.

“We all stand to materially benefit from this, Kryn,” Mara cut in sharply. “If that bothers you, take your request for aid elsewhere.”

“That won’t be necessary, and I believe your quick thinking, Quinn, may have saved us some difficulty.” That was Vowrawn. “When your man showed up at my home, I noticed a couple of fellows skulking in a carriage parked across the street. It would stand to reason they belong to Baras.”

“I am happy to be of service, my lord,” Quinn replied.

“It does appear I owe you an apology and my gratitude, Lord Quinn,” Kryn grumbled. “In my defense, I did believe at the time you were a coward who had bumbled into a civil war.”

“Nox.” Mara’s voice came out as a growl.

The red-haired woman grinned at Mara.

“You specifically said no hands; I have hewn to our bargain.”

Mara held her gaze, her face blank, and said nothing.

“Fine.” Nox held up her hands in a placating gesture. “Later we should discuss where your personality has gone, Mara.”

“And what a discussion that will be,” Mara replied with a smirk.

“Yes, but for now to business,” Nox agreed with a chuckle. “Given that Baras is aware, or will be very shortly, that we have decamped to Gorinth House, I anticipate he will accelerate whatever plans he has lain. Lord Quinn’s generosity will be wasted if we cannot get the evidence we need and the blackmail material Baras has hoarded over the decades.”

“Vette and I will see to that,” Mara said. “We have some sympathetic ears on Lord Baras’s staff who can assist us. We merely need advance notice that he will be out of the house.”

“The annual reception for prospective members is taking place at Revan’s this evening,” Lady Quinn said. “I still correspond with some of the ladies whose husbands frequent the club,” she added in response to more than one incredulous glance.

“How can you know he will attend?” Nox asked.

“Lady Quinn is correct,” Mara said. “I never paid attention to the date, but it is an event my uncle looked forward to every year.” She glanced at her mother-in-law. “He always saw a great deal of personal benefit in meeting those looking for admittance to the club. Still, we should set a watch to make sure he actually leaves the house. If he suspects we are acting tonight, he may opt to stay home.”

“I’ll send word to Arlos,” Pierce suggested. “Lord Baras hasn’t seen him before, and Arlos can skulk with the best of ‘em.”

Mara nodded.

“At his signal, Vette and I will ride to the townhouse. Our contact will admit us to the premises. From there we will have to sneak into his study, take the blackmail information and the evidence, and bring it back here.”

“At which time we will call an emergency Council meeting,” Vowrawn finished.

“We will use the blackmail material to ensure attendance,” Nox added. “If you wish to keep your bastard child a secret, you will come to this meeting.”

“After which time that material will be returned to its rightful owners,” Malavai said coldly. “With no copies or notes made.”

“Of course.” Nox smiled sweetly. “I’m only too happy to keep the Council’s secrets; I’m sure Vowrawn concurs with me.”

A muscle in Quinn’s cheek jumped, but he nodded. They were giving the Horusetian contingent of the Council a great deal of power, Mara knew, but there was nothing for it at this point. Lady Nox had been appointed to the Council largely by Councilors hoping she would act as a counterweight to Baras. That hope could not come true without presenting her with leverage. Still, Mara made a note to involve Marr in their plans once the evidence had been secured; the danger of concentrating power in a single Councilor was precisely why they were all here this evening.

“Baras will flee,” Lady Quinn warned, “the moment he suspects he’s been compromised; why would he remain in the city for a Council meeting?”

“Because the Citadel will be under attack.”

The entire room as one turned to Vette in shock.

“I beg your pardon?” Mara asked carefully.

Vette met Mara’s gaze sheepishly. Mara realized her mouth was hanging open and snapped it shut.

“I can order an attack on the Citadel,” she repeated.

“Order _who_ to attack it?”

This time Vette grinned impishly.

“I have been working with a group of twi’leks within Ryloth who wish to see me restored. They’ve been scouting the Citadel ever since we escaped, because I ordered them to. They can have a respectable force mustered within hours.”

“That’s what you were hiding in that cave!”

It was Mara’s turn to endure the incredulous stares of the group.

“Yes,” Vette replied, shrugging. “I’m sorry I kept it from you, but the wider that information circulated…”

“… The less secure you and the others would be,” Mara finished. “No, do not apologize. I’m impressed. And it will not have to be enough to take the Citadel, merely enough to make it unsafe for Baras’s return.”

“Exactly. I’ll send word to Taunt and the others. I can help you get into Baras’s house, Mara, but I should be there when they move on the Citadel.”

Mara nodded, an invisible hand squeezing her heart as she remembered, once again, that her own holdings were under siege and she could not be there in person to mount a defense.

“Of course you must go. Both of you.” Mara nodded to Jaesa as well. “Ryloth needs its lady.”

Vette smiled. It was predatory.

“We’ll show Baras just what he’s fostered in Ryloth while he plundered our coffers and enslaved our people. He will remain in the city for lack of anywhere else to go.”

“He could just flee to the countryside. Or worse, to Horuset,” Mara said.

“That would be as good as admitting guilt,” Vowrawn replied. “In which case we would be free to send our home guard after him. Worse, hiding in the countryside, he would be cut off from his power base. No, I believe Baras will remain in Kaas City if the Citadel is not secure. To do anything else would weaken him significantly.”

“He will try to use the Council to his advantage,” Malavai said. “We should be prepared for that; he knows our laws and the proclivities of the Council and can manipulate both even without having direct control of a majority of Councilors.”

“He will need to be kept off-balance,” Mara agreed. “Under the circumstances, I think it would be prudent if I brought the allegation.”

Malavai stared at her, eyes wide. Georgiana put a hand on Mara’s arm.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” She looked between Mara and her brother, her brow furrowed with concern.

“It will be too great an opportunity, and too great an insult to him, for me to bring the accusation,” Mara insisted. “He will not be able to resist.”

“Your logic is sound,” Malavai replied, “and having you bring the allegations will remove any remote possibility Baras will flee to the countryside. But he will not hesitate to hurt you in any way possible.” His blue eyes searched her face intently. “Lady Thrask, he will kill you if he must.”

“I know.” She raised her chin defiantly. “I will be ready for him, Malavai.”

He held her gaze for a moment more, then nodded. She exhaled and looked around the room.

“We all know our roles. Let’s prepare.”

***

In her sitting room, Mara surveyed her open trunk and selected a second knife. It went into her sleeve, nestled against the inside of her arm. A third went into her boot.

She’d changed clothes, opting for long sleeves and an outer corset, both of which were pocketed to allow for multiple blades to be concealed in the garments. Her largest knife was already sheathed against her thigh, the only visible weapon she wore.

The pistol in her hand was a different question, she thought. Ultimately it was counterproductive to the stealth required for her task, but there was a certain security in having it with her.

“Oh! Lady Thrask, I apologize.”

Mara jumped at the sound of Malavai’s voice. He stood in the doorway that led to his dressing room, in shirtsleeves and a grey waistcoat. She blushed; it was their sitting room, not hers. The now-familiar ache - longing and anger - tightened within her at the sight of him and she steadfastly refused to wonder whether the longing were beginning to outweigh the anger.

“No, please. I’m nearly done anyway.”

He came around the trunk and stood next to her.

“Heavens,” he murmured when he saw the weapons arrayed therein. “Do you always travel so thoroughly armed?”

She laughed.

“Not always. I didn’t want to leave my uncle anything he could use, should he take Sobrik.” She looked at Malavai and grinned. “If they search my rooms the most they will find is a handful of rather fine Kaasian gowns. Let them weaponize that.”

“I don’t doubt he will try,” Malavai replied dryly.

“Yes, well.” She paused awkwardly, reminding herself again that she was angry with this man.

Malavai cleared his throat and took a step away from her, giving her literal breathing room.

“Indeed. I didn’t realize you would be here, your grace, but I had meant to seek you out before you leave.”

“Yes?”

He looked at his boots for a moment, then back up at her.

“I know you must do this. But I would have you know I will look after Jaesa and the rest of your people here. I will protect them with my life if necessary.”  
Mara stared back down at the trunk, grimaced, and laid her pistol down and closed the lid.

“I never doubted that, Malavai,” she answered carefully, moving toward the door to the hallway. After a moment’s hesitation she motioned for him to follow her. “Please don’t think that dying in my service is something I want from you.”

“No indeed,” he replied. “I merely want to save your worrying. I will have the situation in hand here; all you need focus on is your task.”

“Thank you, Malavai, truly. I-”

She reached for the door handle just as he did. She inhaled sharply when his hand covered hers, the half-remembered jolt of need flashing through her despite her best efforts. She pressed her lips together to contain the gasp that nearly escaped in response.

She could feel his blush without having to look at him.

“Your grace, forgive me,” he sputtered, pulling his hand away.

He froze when her fingers closed around his wrist and then slid down the length of his hand to squeeze his fingers in invitation. Mara watched, fascinated, as his hand slowly closed around hers, then looked up to meet his gaze. He licked his lips, whether from nervousness or desire - or both - she could not guess.

“I miss you,” she said, averting her gaze and taking a deep breath when her lower lip began to tremble. “I’m so angry with you, and I miss you so much it physically pains me.”

She took a step toward him. Their bodies were nearly touching.

“I miss you, too,” he said slowly, clearly considering his words carefully. “I’m grateful you have allowed me to help with this, and I will-”

He cut off when she gripped the front of his waistcoat and pulled him toward her.

“I will do anything you wish, if it is in my power, to atone for my actions,” he finished, the last few words barely more than a breath against her lips.

They stopped Mara cold. She relaxed the fist that was bunched in his waistcoat and pushed him backward gently, her thoughts racing. Did he view her advances now as penance?

Worse, she was unsure if she wanted _him_ , or if she were simply lonely.

“Forgive me,” she whispered, staring at their boots. “I can’t.”

He squeezed her hand and she looked up at him.

“I did not intend,” she paused and pressed her lips together. “I find myself confused as to what precisely I want from you.”

He nodded, a touch relieved, she thought, as if he had just come to the same conclusion.

“I understand,” he replied, taking a step back from her and releasing her hand.

He opened his mouth to continue but a sharp rap on the door cut him off. Mara frowned and turned to open it, and was nearly bowled over by Broonmark charging into the room. Georgiana stood in the hallway. Her gaze travelled from Mara’s face over her shoulder to Malavai, a small smile curving her lips.

“Vette says she is ready,” Georgiana said.

“As am I,”Mara replied, grateful her red skin would camouflage her blush. “I will meet you all in the vestibule.”

Georgiana walked away; Mara could feel her knowing smile as if it left a smug wake behind her. Mara turned back to Malavai, a bemused smile of her own starting.

“I shall leave Broonmark here. You can look after one another.” Her smile broadened as it occurred to her both her husband and her hound had the same air of protective fear about them. “And worry together.”

Malavai glanced down at Broonmark, and back at her, a flat expression on his face.

“Thank you, your grace.” He sounded distinctly less than thrilled by the notion.

Mara reached out to squeeze his hand before she could stop herself, blushed, and turned to leave.

“Lady Thrask.”

She looked back at him.

“Come home safely. Please.”

Mara smiled.

“I intend to, Malavai. You will not be rid of me so easily.”

 

 


	20. Concurrence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The political quarrel between Mara and Baras becomes physical. Mara and Quinn find solace in a common enemy, and in common allies.

“I don’t suppose Pierce made sure that Arlos could correctly identify Duke Baras?” Vette asked as they tied their horses one street over from Baras’s townhouse.

“I should hope Pierce wouldn’t overlook such a detail,” Mara replied dryly. “We’re in for quite a shock if so.”

Despite her cavalier tone, Mara’s gut twisted with unease that was only heightened by Vette’s question. There was nothing for it now, however; they’d simply have to deal with whatever awaited them in her uncle’s house. They moved through the fading daylight, walking past other richly-appointed townhouses toward her uncle’s home. From afar, Mara hoped their breeches and waistcoats would mark them as two young dandies out for an evening stroll. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t inform you of my correspondence with Taunt,” Vette said into the silence. 

“Don’t make yourself uneasy, Vette, I beg you. I very much understand the need for secrecy where my uncle is concerned.” She paused. “Are you confident they can provide the distraction we need at the Citadel?”

Mara felt her friend’s feral smile.

“I am. They’ve been a minor thorn in Baras’s side for years; they’ll prove more than adequate.”

“Especially with you at their head.” Mara took a deep breath as the import of the next day or so settled on her in a rush. She stopped and gripped Vette’s shoulder. “No matter how this goes, Vette, I am happy you will be with your people again.”

Vette cocked her head, one lekku brushing Mara’s hand on her shoulder. 

“Is that sentimentality, your grace?”

“Perhaps a little,” Mara replied with a smile.

“Well, stop it,” Vette said briskly, squeezing Mara’s hand. “We will win, and all of Dromund Kaas will be safer for it.”

They continued walking, turning onto the street that led to Baras’s stable yard. 

“Vette, you never told me how you escaped the Citadel.”

It was difficult to tell in the waning light, but Mara was certain her friend stiffened at her words. 

“I’ve been trying to work it out on my own,” she continued. “It must have been someone you trusted; even in as dire straits as you were, I doubt you would have followed a complete stranger into the countryside. But all our mutual friends were accounted for so far as I know.”

“Mara,” Vette said, a slight warning in her voice.

“Everyone except Lord Quinn, of course.” Silence. “Vette, you know what I am asking.”

Vette was silent for a long moment.

“How long have you known?” she asked, her voice resigned.

“I only began to suspect recently, but Malavai misspoke today.”

“Of course he did,” Vette sighed. “He asked us to remain silent on his involvement.”

Any further conversation was cut off when they arrived at Baras’s stable yard, a fact for which Mara was grateful as it saved her from having to react outwardly to Vette’s confirmation of her suspicions. She pressed herself against the outer wall and eased her head around the corner, scanning for stable hands or other servants. The courtyard was deserted.

“It would seem Mrs. Halidrell was as good as her word,” Mara murmured softly to Vette as they picked their way carefully through the courtyard, their feet nearly silent. 

The servants’ entrance was unlocked. Vette slowly turned the knob and opened it. They were in the servants’ corridor: the intersection of two stairways, one leading down and the other leading up to the servants’ quarters. Downstairs, she heard raucous laughter and the sounds of utensils scraping plates. The indoor staff was at dinner. Vette closed the door behind them and they hurried through the hall into the ground floor of the house and into the morning room, closing themselves in.

The door adjoining Baras’s study was locked, but Vette reached into the breast pocket of her waistcoat and produced a leather wallet the length of her hand. Inside laid an impressive assortment of lockpicks.

“Do you always carry those?”

“In some form or other,” Vette replied with an impish grin. Mara shook her head wryly. 

She selected one of the tools and turned to the knob before her. As she worked, Mara picked up where she’d left off in their previous conversation.

“Was secrecy the condition of your rescue?” 

“Nothing of the sort,” Vette assured her without looking up. “He begged us not to tell you, insisted that his role in our freedom should remain unknown, lest he lower himself to Baras’s tactics of using us to manipulate you.”

Mara hummed in response, turning that over in her mind. 

“I wish he’d told me,” she muttered. 

Vette laughed softly.

“What?”

“Would you have trusted his motives if he had?”

Mara glared at her friend’s back, working out a response. Of course she wouldn’t have trusted Malavai if he’d paraded his assistance to Vette and Jaesa before her proudly, as if the action should cancel out the lies he’d told. And yet, she felt a profound shame that he had been able to help her friends when she hadn’t, and an equally-profound, if more begrudging, gratitude that he had.

She was about to admit as much when there was a click and the door opened with a creak. Both women froze for a moment, Mara’s ears straining for sounds of someone coming up from the kitchen to check on the sound. After a moment of continued silence, she nodded at Vette and they eased the door open and entered the study. Mara hurried to her uncle’s desk, quickly rifling through the papers neatly stacked next to his ledgers as Vette began working on the desk drawers.

“Ah-ha,” she said softly when she pulled a drawer that didn’t budge. She grinned at Mara. “Locked drawers mean secrets.”

“Hopefully the secrets we’re looking for,” Mara replied. 

It was only a moment’s work for Vette to pick that lock as well. She pulled a stack of folios out of the drawer. Mara flipped through them, her unease growing despite their apparent success thus far. The folios were clearly blackmail material - evidence of bastard children, ledgers, ill-gotten correspondence. Vette tucked it all into a leather satchel that had been left sitting next to the desk. Mara opened her mouth to protest, but let the words die unsaid. Her uncle would know no matter what that he’d been robbed; the absence of the satchel ultimately would make little difference.

“Blackmail, but nothing treasonous here,” Vette commented. 

“No,” Mara agreed slowly. “But it would be just like my uncle to keep his incriminating documents separate.”

She pulled the remaining drawers out, her fingers running along the edges of each until she found a joint that was out of place. After a few tries she felt the bottom of the drawer give way. She lifted the false bottom and found a thin ledger. She opened it, and found a history of expenditures. The recipient was not named, but Mara felt fairly certain the dates, starting several months before the Corellia campaign and continuing to the present date, and amounts would correspond to the payments sent by Thanaton to Major Injaye. The ledger followed the folios into the satchel.

“Should we search anything else?”

“I think this is enough to begin, certainly enough to incriminate,” Mara responded, her gut telling her they’d lingered too long already. 

They quickly set everything back as they’d found it and hurried out of the study, relocking the door behind them, and proceeded to sneak out of the house. It was completely dark when they reemerged onto the streets of Kaas City.

“That was too easy,” Mara muttered as they walked back to their horses, satchel in hand. Her eyes scanned the street and houses around them, certain Draagh or another of her uncle’s lackeys was lying in wait.

“The servants _were_ at dinner,” Vette said, but her voice was uncertain. 

“Yes, but where was Draagh? I can’t believe my uncle would be so lax as to leave his home unguarded under the circumstances. Why would he leave?”

“It’s possible he wanted to be seen out in society,” Vette mused. “To show he’s unafraid.”

“Or to give himself an alibi,” Mara added, “while Draagh performs some sort of illegal or-“

As one they swore and ran to their horses.

Mara was only vaguely aware of the angry shouts of pedestrians as she and Vette tore through the city at a full gallop. As fast as they moved, her thoughts were far ahead of her, at Gorinth House, and what she planned to do to Draagh if her suspicions were correct and she caught him trying to harm her family.

***

The unattended horses tied outside Gorinth House and the eerie stillness of its stable yard did nothing to allay Mara’s fears as she and Vette left their horses and took off toward the house at a run. Barely three steps into the house, she stifled a yell as someone slammed into her.

It was Jillins, eyes wide and gasping for breath, seemingly propelled up the stairs by the panicked shouts pouring from the servants’ hall below.

“We heard a pistol shot, my lady,” he blurted when he realized who he’d barreled into.

“Go downstairs and keep everyone there,” she ordered. “Do not come up unless I, Lord Quinn, or one of the Councilors comes down to summon you, do you understand me?”

He nodded and ran to do as bid.

Mara’s throat stung with her first breath in the main hallway. Ahead through the haze of pistol smoke, the door to the drawing room was ajar admitting a sliver of light and the shouts and scrabbling of combat into the otherwise-quiet hallway. She and Vette crouched on either side of that sliver of light, Mara’s heart pounding in her ears. At a nod from Vette, they threw the doors fully open. One door caught an assailant in the shoulder, sending him stumbling into one of his fellows as they advanced on Lady Nox.

“You’re late,” Nox snapped with a vicious grin.

Further into the room, Pierce and Jaesa, both armed with knives, had cornered a single assassin. Carrying distinctly over the din of combat, Broonmark snarled and barked.

Mara’s attention narrowed to the back of the room where Draagh stalked back and forth before Malavai, who stood with his back to the study door, a knife in hand, his jaw clenched determinedly. In that moment Draagh attacked. Her husband awkwardly dodged Draagh’s blade, and Mara’s chest constricted with panic. 

“Malavai!”

Her voice cracked on the last syllable and she launched herself toward them. His head whipped toward her, shock plain on his face when his blue eyes met hers across the drawing room.

She realized her mistake too late; Draagh took advantage of the momentary lapse and slashed his knife across Malavai’s ribs, the exact move he’d used on her a month ago. The cut was punctuated by a sharp punch to the gut.

Malavai dropped like a sack of stones. Draagh turned, a smug smile on his face.

And then Mara was on him. 

She threw her full weight into Draagh, sending them both flying into the wall next to the fireplace. Mara slammed his wrist into the edge of the mantle as hard as she could. His knife clattered to the floor.

“I was hoping you’d show up,” Draagh growled. “Not much sport in killing your pretty earl, here.”

She growled in reply and drove a knee into his groin. His lungs deflated with a wheeze punctuated by a strangled grunt when her fist followed her knee, hammered into his gut. She drew back for another blow but staggered when he struck her solidly in the chest. A glance backward confirmed she kept herself between Draagh and Malavai without stepping on her husband. She focused again on her opponent, yanking her knife from its sheath in one fluid movement, her eyes never leaving Draagh’s.

“You’ll at least bite a little before I put you down,” Draagh continued with a laugh.

Mara’s breathing steadied. She hefted her knife and dodged one punch and blocked a second, the impact reverberating in her forearm, and attacked. Two failed strikes and then the heel of her hand connected with Draagh’s sternum, slamming him backward against the wall.

Draagh coughed, some of the smugness leaving his face. She heard a sharp, short laugh and realized it came from her. He swung at her wildly. Her blade arced toward his chest. Eyes wide, he managed to throw an arm up to block; her blade ripped through his coatsleeve and came away flecked with blood.

Time slowed as he stared in shock at the wound. All levity was gone from his visage; when his eyes met hers again, there was a cold rage in them. Mara grinned, her blood singing with confident rage.

“You’ll find my teeth have sharpened in the last month, Draagh.”

He bellowed and lunged for her, his first aimed at her side, where he’d struck her the last time they fought. She dodged easily, her knife hand raised for a counterattack. 

Pain shot through her face. A second of darkness and then she was on her backside, the pain of the impact shooting up her spine and shocking her back to alertness. A dull ache in her cheek and jaw promised a massive bruise in the morning. She gripped her knife hilt tightly, reassuring herself she hadn’t dropped it. She looked up to see Malavai pushing himself up, one hand holding his side. Their eyes met. Suddenly Malavai yelled and hurled his knife. She heard Draagh curse and scrambled to her knees to face him.

Draagh was turning back toward her after dodging the knife, the fireplace poker raised over his head with both hands, intent on driving it down into her skull. 

Mara screamed and dropped forward, supporting herself on her free hand. He paused, and for a sliver of a moment Mara worried her scream had been too overwrought a performance. But then he laughed, the cruel bark of a sound that he reserved for his beaten opponents.

The laugh turned into a pained cry when she drove her knife into his ankle, grunting with the effort to force the blade through boot and tendon.

His leg collapsed under him. Mara shot to her feet, grabbing the fireplace poker from his loosened grip.

She glared down at him. Draagh met her gaze defiantly, but there was resignation in his face. He licked his lips nervously. She snarled and drove the poker through his throat.

The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional gurgle as Draagh’s life drained away. 

Mara looked up to find the other three assassins dispatched. Lady Nox was halfway across the room to aid her, but had frozen, her hazel eyes wide and a grin blossoming on her face.

“Is this all of them?” her voice was ragged.

“We believe so,” Lady Nox replied.

“Where’s Vowrawn?”

“In the next room,” Malavai gasped from beside her. “With Georgiana and my mother.” His fingers brushed hers. “Georgiana was injured-“

“I will see to her,” she said gently, squeezing his fingertips briefly and fighting down another flash of panic. If they’d hurt her seriously….

“Go get the servants,” she said to Lady Nox, her voice hardening. “I want these four strapped to their horses and sent back to my uncle.”

“There’s no reason to believe the horses know their way back, Nel,” Pierce said quietly.

“Then they will wander the streets until someone identifies them,” she shot back, wiping her knife on Draagh’s coat and sheathing it.

“It will be done as you order,” Lady Nox said quietly, approval in her voice. “I’ll see to it.”   
She left the room. Mara opened the door to the study to find Vowrawn  pacing in front of the sofa. Behind him Lady Quinn sat primly with an arm around Georgiana’s waist.

“Lady Thrask!” Vowrawn cried, the knife he’d drawn disappearing back inside his sleeve.

He turned to help Georgiana stand. “This is certainly heating up, isn’t it?”

Mara shook her head with a bemused smile and focused on her sister-in-law, who shrugged off both the Council member and her mother to walk under her own power.

“I’m fine,” she said as her eyes met Mara’s. “Malavai likes to exaggerate.”

“But you  _ were _ injured, yes?”

“A graze only,” she replied as she walked through the door. She held up her arm, showing a deep, slightly burned cut just below her shoulder. It needed dressing but no stitching. “I shall have a rather unladylike scar.”

Mara smiled, her heart slowing a little with relief. “I think you’ll wear it well.”

Lady Quinn gasped and shoved her way through the door. Georgiana looked past Mara, her eyes questioning, and then they widened and she hurried through as well. They both dropped to their knees on either side of Malavai, who had pushed himself into a sitting position, his hand still over the cut in his side.

“You idiot, sending her to me when you are in far more dire need of medical attention,” Georgiana snapped, trying to pry his hand away from the cut. “Let me see it.”

“It’s nothing that won’t heal,” he gritted back, trying to twitch away from her, only to bump into his mother on his other side.

“I told you I would only fight Draagh if I had to,” Mara said teasingly, kneeling between them. She ignored his flat glare and turned to Lady Quinn. “Will you take him to my rooms?” 

“That is not necessary, your grace,” he protested, his voice somewhere between pleading and exasperated. “I am fully capable of stitching this myself.”

“It is necessary because I deem it so, Malavai,” Mara replied with a sweet smile that only broadened when he scowled. “Let me tend to you, dear.”

The endearment fell out of her mouth before she could stop it. He went still, staring at her incredulously. She paused and then forged on, knowing any delay would only cost him more blood.

She locked eyes with her mother-in-law. “I trust you can handle him?”

Lady Quinn’s brown eyes were sharp and appraising above a teasing smirk.

“I’m his mother,” she replied dryly.

“Thank you.” Mara touched Quinn’s shoulder. “I will follow directly.”

She rose and turned to Vowrawn and the remaining occupants of the drawing room.

“Baras has removed his sparring gloves,” Vowrawn said, a bit of surprise in his voice. “I had not thought he would move so quickly, though in retrospect I should have expected it.”

“Your grace, we need to go, now,” Vette said, coming over and handing the satchel of pilfered papers to Mara. “If Baras is accelerating his plans, Jaesa and I need to get to Taunt and the others as soon as possible.”

“I packed a saddlebag for us in your absence,” Jaesa added. “There’s no reason we can’t depart now.”

Mara nodded, gripping each of her friend’s hands in one of hers. 

“Go. And good hunting.”

They both squeezed her hand and hurried from the room.

“Vowrawn, Pierce, can I leave you to oversee the cleanup down here?” Mara asked, glancing at the bodies, smashed furniture, and ruined rugs. They wouldn’t be entertaining company in this room anytime soon.

“Of course, my dear,” Vowrawn replied. “I must say every one of your people - from Miss Willsaam up to Lord Quinn, performed admirably today. Indeed, we owe our lives to young Lady Quinn. She stumbled upon Draagh’s party in the hall and managed to get away to warn us, despite being shot at.”

“I will convey your compliments to her,” Mara replied. “Please excuse me.”

***

“Mother, this is ridiculous. My rooms are two doors up the hall,” Quinn complained, not for the first time.

“Lady Thrask was quite clear in her directions, Malavai.” 

His mother’s voice carried an unflappability that had frustrated him his entire life; it was the tone of voice that told him nothing he did or said would change her mind. She had found clean cloth somewhere and was pressing it to the cut in his side. The pressure helped slow the blood flow even if it did nothing to ease the pain of the wound. Behind her, Georgiana sat at a table in the corner of the room watching their mother fuss over him, her expression alternating between concerned and disapproving. She held a linen handkerchief to the graze on her shoulder.

“You could at least show half as much attention to Georgiana,” he grumbled, well aware that he sounded considerably less mature than his thirty-two years would suggest.

“Georgiana isn’t bleeding half as badly as you are” his mother replied. 

“I can apply pressure to my own wound,” he insisted.

“Indeed you can, Malavai,” Mara’s voice said, “and I suggest you do so now.”

She rounded the foot of the bed and set his medical case - she must have come retrieved it from his dressing room - on the table in front of Georgiana. A nasty bruise was forming on her face and her clothes were still splattered with blood, but her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows and her red arms and hands were scrubbed clean. Broonmark followed in her wake like an anxious pale shadow and curled up at Georgiana’s feet, his head leaning on her knee. 

Mara opened the case and fished out an ointment and clean bandages. She handed both to Georgiana.

“Lady Quinn, would please take Georgiana to clean and bandage her wound? I will tend to Malavai.”

His mother waited a moment until he’d taken over putting pressure over the cloth on his side, then moved toward the door with Georgiana. The hound whined quietly, as if trying to decide which lady to follow, before relaxing suddenly and curling up under the table to sleep.

Quinn tried not to scowl too much over the fact that his mother and sister obeyed Mara without question when his requests and orders had washed over them without effect. Given the humor in Georgiana’s blue eyes as she looked back at him before closing the door, he had not succeeded. The door clicked shut and suddenly he was alone with his wife for only the second time in over a month; for only the third time in their six weeks of marriage. He swallowed, his stomach fluttering with nerves.

“I have the blackmail materials and evidence of my uncle’s treason,” she said quietly. “I’ve brought them in here for the time being.”

Quinn exhaled heavily, whether with relief or disappointment that a Kaasian noble could be so disloyal, he wasn’t sure. 

“So Vowrawn’s accusations are true.”

She nodded. “It would appear so.”

Mara picked up the tools and catgut and brought them to the bed, arranging them on the comforter next to him. A bruise was darkening on her left cheek. He winced, but forced his face to relax when she met his gaze.

“Nox and Vowrawn should be given all credit for initiating this investigation, but the evidence and blackmail material should go to the full Council. I’m entrusting them to you.”

He nodded, his heart pounding with the implication of her trust.

“I will make sure they are put to appropriate use,” he said solemnly. 

She nodded and turned back to the task at hand. 

“I should warn you my stitches will not be terribly neat, but they will function,” she said, meeting his gaze with a little smile. 

The expression carried a shyness he’d never seen in her. But the warmth in her eyes was familiar, and something he’d not seen since the morning his betrayal had been laid bare. 

“If you wish I could instruct you,” he said hesitantly.

She smiled again, and his heart beat a bit faster.

“Please do.” She hesitated. “I will need access to the wound.”

“Ah, of course.”

He paused, blushing, then reached for the buttons of his waistcoat. Mara moved as if to help him, but pulled back before touching his hands, her red skin darkening with a blush of her own. After a moment she said,

“I’m going to change out of these clothes. Can you manage for a moment?”

He nodded, relieved. As much as he missed her and as much as he wanted her, even now with the gaping ache in his side, her undressing him seemed beyond the fragile understanding that existed between them. He labored out of his waistcoat, then finally pulled his shirt over his head. When she returned from her dressing room in a loose, flowing robe he was naked from the waist up, once again pressing the cloth to the wound in his side. She licked her lips and reached out a gentle hand to push him onto his side.

He hissed when she cleaned the cut. As she worked to stitch it closed, she paused and asked him questions periodically, about technique or the best way to tie a stitch, and he instructed her through teeth clenched against pain. After working silence for a time, she looked up at him.

“You held your own well against, Draagh, Malavai, all things considered.” 

She grimaced, and he felt himself laugh mirthlessly.

“I mean to say,” she began again, looking at him earnestly, “that I realize I am the reason you’re injured thusly. Had I not distracted you…” she grimaced again.

He pushed himself upright, ignoring the twinge in his side, and touched her shoulder.

“I’m well aware he would have prevailed eventually. Your arrival saved me worse injury. And,” he paused, then forged onward before his courage failed him, “if I may say so, your grace, a more stunning rescuer could not be found in all of Dromund Kaas.”

She stared at him for several heartbeats. Quinn held his breath, hoping he had not overstepped or misread the shift in her attitude toward him. At length, she smiled again, a bit bemused.

“Such hyperbole. Don’t try so hard, Malavai,” she said softly, pressing him back down into her pillows and returning to her work. He obeyed, smiling despite the pain.

A few moments later she tied the last stitch and trimmed the excess catgut.

“There. I will apologize in advance for the odd-looking scar.” She laughed softly as she helped him to sit up. “You’ve seen my embroidery.”

“I have indeed,” he replied with a smile. 

It faded as she worked to bandage the cut and he looked down at the bloodstain he’d left on her comforter. It was almost certainly ruined, and he had no sense of how deeply the stain had seeped into the sheets or the mattress.

“You should have taken me to my own rooms, your grace, rather than have me ruin your bed,” he said grimly.

Mara glanced at her comforter and hummed as she tied off the bandage.

“No matter,” she said. “The comforter and sheets can be replaced. Although,” she looked up at him and a choked laugh escaped her, “I supposed we had better replace them quickly before my uncle claims both our fortunes next week.”

The last few words were nearly lost to laughter. The sound brought an almost involuntary smile to his face even though part of him recoiled at her words. But then the absurdity of their prospects asserted itself and he found himself chuckling with her.

“I wonder if your uncle would accept the soiled bedding as part of the good-faith payment,” he mused. “Or the drawing room rug Draagh ruined by dying on it; that was centuries old and utterly unique.”

Mara nearly doubled over and had to steady herself with a thoroughly distracting hand on his bare chest.

“He couldn’t very well deny it on legal grounds,” she gasped, her gales of laughter reduced to giggles. “Besides, Draagh will need some sort of burial shroud. We’d be doing him a kindness.”

More laughter bubbled out of them both. Even though Quinn’s analytical brain told him the macabre humor was almost certainly the result of stress and adrenaline, he focused instead on the simple pleasure of laughing with her again.

“The absurdity of it all,” she gasped after a time. 

“I know,” he agreed. “I-“ 

He cut off with a groan when his side spasmed. Mara became serious immediately, placing a concerned hand on his bare shoulder. 

“Forgive me, I shouldn’t have made you laugh like that,” she said ruefully. “Come, you should sleep.”

She helped him stand. He waved her away after a couple of tentative steps and walked under his own power into their sitting room. Mara pulled her bellpull on the way out of the room.

“You should also sleep, your grace; I am not the only one of us recovering from injury.”

“I’m aware, Malavai,” she replied. 

They passed through his dressing room and into his bedroom. He heard Mara’s sharp intake of air and sternly kept his eyes forward. He knew precisely what memories were assailing her now and had no wish to intrude upon her processing them. Several moments of silence passed, and then her hand was on his arm, guiding him to his bed. When their eyes met her face was studiously neutral. She pulled back the covers and helped him into them, her hands lingering on him for a heartbeat. To his surprise, she curled up on her side of the bed - far enough away to avoid touching him and on top of the covers besides, but that she remained at all was a shock. 

Broonmark trotted after her and tried to jump onto the bed with them. Quinn opened his mouth to protest, but Mara was already ordering him back to the floor. He heard the hound settle onto the rug on Mara’s side of the bed.

She turned to face him, her eyes soft.

“Sleep, Malavai,” she said. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

His eyes were already drifting shut.    
  
Mara watched Malavai’s face relax as sleep claimed him. Her insides churned with conflicting emotion - contentment and residual anger, and anger at herself for feeling so readily at ease in his presence and in this room, where memories of his warmth and passion were less dimmed by his betrayal than she would have liked. 

Despite her ambivalence, it was with reluctance that she left his side when she heard Zara call for her from her rooms. Her conversation with her maid lasted only a handful of minutes - long enough to ask Zara to evaluate her bedding and determine the best course of action, cleaning or discarding it, and to ask to be awoken in three hours’ time - but she found herself impatient for the woman to leave and allow her to return to bed. 

She padded back into Malavai’s rooms, pausing on her way to the bed to pet and compliment her hound. Looking at her husband’s sleeping form, she considered briefly climbing under the covers with him, his warmth a tempting balm against the aches present in her body. But she rejected the idea and instead laid back on top of the covers. Without thinking, she reached out and smoothed his hair back from his face. As her fingers threaded through his dark hair, a sobering realization settled over her.

She’d tried to hate him for what he’d done, to no avail. While her anger and hurt lingered, she could not deny the warmth she felt when she looked at him, even now. She loved him. 

She had no idea whether that was enough to hang onto while they worked through his betrayal. But that was a question for later, for after her uncle had been dealt with.

She turned over and blew out the candle on her nightstand.


	21. Not Quite Blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mara and Quinn tentatively explore their remaining feelings for one another, and Mara confronts her uncle. The reckoning is at hand.

Birdsong pulled Quinn into the grey space between sleep and wakefulness. He became aware of his other senses slowly. The soft-firm feel of the mattress under him. One arm lying on top of the blanket and chilled through.

The ache in his side.

It crescendoed as he came fully awake, spiking when he tried to sit up, gasping.

“Ssshhhh, lay back.”

A red hand pressed him back into his pillows. He complied, eyes fluttering closed, content to lie next to his wife for a time.

His eyes flew open again and he jerked to stare at her.

“You stayed.”

She was still fully dressed and lying on top of the comforter, but her hand was still on his chest, where he was certain she could feel his heart hammering away. He dared not hope….

A faint smile flashed across her face and her amber eyes slid from his.

“You did bleed all over my bed, Malavai,” she said slowly. Her eyes came back to his. “And you’re injured.”

She hopped down and came to his side of the bed, pulling the covers back to get a look at his wound. She picked up a hand mirror from the side table and held it up so he could see the bandage.

“What do you think, Captain Quinn?”

It was remarkably clean; only the faintest hint of blood had seeped through in the night.

“Very impressive, Lady Thrask,” he replied honestly.

“It still requires changing,” she said, turning to walk away.

“Will you bring my full case? I should like to treat that bruise on your face, if you will allow me.”

He held his breath as she looked at him for a moment before nodding and leaving the room. She returned with his medical case and placed it on the side table. He winced as she helped him to sit up and arranged his pillows against the headboard.

“You do too much, your grace,” he said softly. “You had no such help when you were injured thusly.”

“I slept far longer than you,” she replied, rummaging through the case. “It didn’t hurt nearly as much when I finally got up.”

“I’m sorry, I should have-”

“What’s done is done, Malavai.”

Her voice was firm but gentle. He stared at her for several moments.

“I know I cannot change the past,” he said finally. “But I would have you know I’m yours, in whatever capacity you’ll have me, for the rest of my days.”

“Malavai,” she sighed, sitting down next to him, eyes on her hands.

He sat quietly, waiting for her to continue. But after a moment she shook herself and removed the soiled bandage. She cleaned and redressed the wound before she spoke again.

“I know that. Somehow, despite what you’ve done, I know you’re mine. I just….” Her lower lip trembled and she sighed, looking away.

He swallowed, unsure if he wanted her to finish that thought, and sat up, gingerly reaching into his medical case for a poultice.

“May I?”

She nodded, still not looking directly at him. His hands shook as he gently took her chin and turned her head toward him. Tears had left damp rivers on her cheeks. His heart clenched, but he said nothing and instead applied the poultice to her battered skin, using the movement to carefully wipe her tears away in the process.

“I love you.”

She said the words so softly it took several moments for him to process them. He froze, his hands still on her face.

“What?”

“I love you.” Her voice was stronger this time.

“Lady Thrask, I-” He cut off when she gently took his hands and pushed them back to his lap.

“Gods help me, I love you, Malavai. But I don’t know what that means right now.”

She stood and paced before him. He stared at her, all capacity for words gone.

“I don’t know what I want from you. I… I don’t know if loving you is enough.” She stopped and finally looked him in the eye. “I can’t know, not until my uncle has been dealt with. I can’t think beyond that right now.”

Her tone was oddly pleading.

“I understand,” he said slowly. “Lady Thrask, I would never ask you to… to think of me above what you are dealing with right now. I can wait.”

She nodded, looking around the room awkwardly.

“I should dress in fresh clothes,” she said suddenly.

“I should dress, full stop,” he agreed. “Ask Zara to bring you some wash water; that poultice will be ready to come off by the time she arrives with it.”

Mara nodded and left the room.

*** 

By the time Malavai entered their sitting room, fully dressed, Mara was reviewing the evidence she’d taken from her uncle’s study, taking notes and mentally preparing the speech she would give the Council.

“Is this everything you will need?”

“I believe so,” she replied without looking up. “Vowrawn sent over the evidence Nox used against Thanaton. This should be enough to build a case.”

Looking through the records centered her, gave her something to focus on aside from the desire to throw herself into Malavai’s arms and be done with it. How easy it had become to focus on how she missed him now that he was injured and in need of her. Now that she knew how he’d worked to atone for his actions.

Fortunately for her resolve, he seated himself on the settee opposite her - wincing as he slowly sank onto the cushions - rather than sitting next to her.

“I will accompany you to the Council chambers, if you will allow me. I have no doubt you can handle anyone Baras sends after you,” she could hear the smile in his voice, “but I would like to stand with you against your uncle. If I may.”

Mara paused in her reading and studied him.

“Of course.”

He bowed his head fractionally.

“Thank you, your grace.”

He picked up the morning newspaper that had been left for them. They sat in silence as Mara finished her notes, then packed both ledgers and her notes into a satchel. She sat back, watching her husband read, his blue eyes scanning slowly back and forth over the text, one leg crossed easily over the other.

His head came up to stare at her when she stood suddenly, giving in to the nerves fluttering in her belly, and began to pace. She wrung her hands, warring with herself, before stopping before him.

“I know what you did for Vette and Jaesa.”

To his credit, his eyes widened only slightly, and he calmly folded the paper and laid it aside.

“I asked Vette not to tell you.”

“She didn't. You did.”

He cocked his head, dark brow furrowed in confusion.

“Georgiana never wrote to you, Malavai. Not after you left Sobrik.”

He sighed and closed his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said, opening them. “You weren’t to know.”

Mara sat down next to him.

“I know. It’s because of that I can thank you.” She met his gaze. “Thank you, Malavai, for helping them when I could not.”

“You’re welcome,” he paused, “though I cannot claim the purest of motives. As happy I am they are safe, I must admit I thought only of you.”

She laughed softy.

“Honorable to a fault,” she said, smiling fondly. She turned to stare out the windows, her smile fading. “Though it will be for naught if I fail today.”

“I have complete faith in you, Lady Thrask.”

She turned back to him, unable to keep the soft smile from returning, and reached for his hand. He gasped when their skin touched.

“Thank you. Still, I’m glad… I’m glad we had a few moments today to talk, should the worst happen.”

He swallowed visibly, his hand tightening in hers.

“Lady Thrask, I-”

“I know. I will do everything in my power to achieve victory today. But you will… you will look after them, won’t you, if I fall?”

For all the good it would do; should she fail, he and the others would meet with executions or accidents not long after she herself was put to death. He knew that; the fear in his face told her that much. But he nodded, his jaw clenched stubbornly.

“Thank you.”

A knock sounded at the door and Jillins poked his head into the room.

“Pardon, my lord, but this arrived from the Council.”

Quinn released her hand and took the offered letter, opening it after the footman withdrew.

“Vette was successful. A meeting has been called. You are to be the first order of business.”

Mara nodded and took a shaking breath. Malavai reached for her hand. She squeezed his fingers gratefully and didn’t release them; not for the walk down to their carriage or the carriage ride itself, and not during the walk to an antechamber off the main Council chamber.

“I wish I could hear what’s being said,” she groused.

“Largely parliamentary procedure; opening the meetings and so forth,” Malavai replied. “Nothing that would have a bearing on the case you’re presenting.”

Mara nodded, then nearly jumped out of her skin when an aide knocked and entered the room.

“The Council is ready for you, your grace.”

Eight words she had anticipated and feared. She moved toward the door, but was pulled backward by Malavai’s grip on her hand. She looked up at him, confused.

“I believe I shall need this back, Lady Thrask,” he said gently.

“Oh. Yes, of course.”

She released his hand, feeling suddenly exposed.

“I will be at your back the entire time,” he said, leaning in so the words were for her ears alone. “You’re an extraordinary woman, your grace; you can do this.”

Whether it was the nerves in her belly or the sizzle of his low whisper in her ear, she wasn’t sure, nor did she care. Mara grabbed her husband’s head with both hands and kissed him. His arms went around her after the briefest hesitation, pulling her flush against him. For a long moment the rest of existence faded away to nothing but the familiar heat of her husband’s mouth, the desperately-missed feeling of his body against hers. Then the aide cleared his throat pointedly.

Mara froze and slowly turned her head toward the aide, her cheeks warming. Malavai released her with an embarrassed cough and took a step back.

“My apologies,” she said to the aide. “Shall we?”

 ***

“Good morning, my lords,” Mara said genially as she entered the room, trying not to wince when her bruised face ached in protest of the smile she wore.

Her voice echoed in the chamber. It was huge, polished black floor with the seal of Dromund Kaas lain into the center of the room; the twelve Council seats arrayed in parallel lines on either side of the seal, facing one another. The high ceiling was a honeycomb of bone-white wood and stained glass. Sunlight streamed through those windows in an explosion of reds, oranges, and golds.

“Lady Quinn, are you well?”

Lord Ravage gestured toward Mara’s face. She bit back the urge to correct her title and touched her skin gingerly.

“Yes, my lord, thank you. I assure you I’m quite capable of continuing.”

“You are extremely cheerful for someone who has accused a member of this Council of treason, Lady Quinn,” Marr said.

“Is rooting out treason not cause for celebration, Lord Marr?”

Mara turned to her uncle and bowed her head fractionally.

“Duke Baras. I’m pleased you remained in town.”

“Lady Quinn.” Bars’s voice held the affected geniality Mara had come to associate with her uncle barely holding his temper in check. “I see you have emerged from solitude with quite the fanciful imagination.”

Mara smirked and turned back to Marr.

“May I present my case, my lord?”

“Lord Quinn, you are rather quiet. It is not customary for a nobleman to allow his wife to address the Council.” That was Mortis.

Malavai stepped forward, both ledgers cradled in one arm.

“My lord, Lady Quinn is more than equal to this task. Indeed, the grievance is hers, and only she can adequately communicate it to the Council.”

Mortis pressed his lips together and sat back in his chair.

“It seems you may proceed, Lady Quinn.”

“You are aware, Lady Quinn,” Marr interjected, “that should your evidence prove false or insufficient, you and Lord Quinn will be at Duke Baras’s mercy, liable for charges of slander or even treason?”

“I do, Lord Marr.”

“Then you may proceed.”

“My lords. You were all present last month when Lord Thanaton’s treason was laid bare. I need not trouble you recounting the tale.”

Mara met each of the council member’s eyes in turn.

“What no one but Lady Nox seemed to wonder was how Lord Thanaton could afford to send his ward such large sums of money. His estate was comfortable but by no means generating enough coin to support Thanaton and his family along with Major Injaye and hers.”

“Duke Baras, on the other hand,” Mara swept her hand toward her uncle, “suffers from no such lack of funds, as you well know.”

She turned and took the ledgers from Malavai, sharing the briefest glance as she did so. His lips quirked upward into an encouraging smile that was gone nearly before he’d finished forming it.

“Lord Marr, I present to you two ledgers. The first belonged to Lord Thanaton and was seized along with his other assets after his execution.”

Marr’s green eyes were sharp as he examined the book.

“Yes, this was brought to me as proof of his crimes. I take it Lady Nox loaned it to you?”

“Indeed, upon my request. For I found this ledger,” she handed the second book to Marr, “hidden in my uncle’s desk.”

“You have no proof that is mine, Marr,” Baras interjected. “At the very least-“

“Let the girl finish,” Rictus snarled, cutting him off.

Mara stared at Rictus in shock. Only then did she realize the marked hostility in the room; no one would even look her uncle in the eye. Instead, every eye was trained on her and the books in Marr’s hands. Their deliverance, they no doubt saw it, from Duke Baras’s machinations.

It suddenly struck her that what she said mattered very little; even a fraction of what she had found would have been enough for this lot, so eager were they to have a plausible reason to be rid of their adversary. Indeed, their desperation had been such that they had accepted Lady Nox, a _Sith woman_ , in their midst in the off-chance she could do the job.

Mara swallowed. She did not relish the idea of this being a show trial; but then, she could not claim she was any less desperate to be rid of her uncle than his fellow Council members.

“You’ll note the expenditures listed in Duke Barsas’s ledger correspond exactly to the expenditures the Council identified in Thanaton’s ledger as incriminating.”

“Duke Baras paid to have his oldest friend and ally murdered so that he could assume his Council seat.”

“Rubbish,” Baras snarled. “How dare you drag my dear friend’s death into this charade.”

“My dear uncle, we both know you were planning to stand for Vengean’s seat the minute news of the Corellia retreat broke, long before Vengean’s death was known by anyone here in Dromund Kaas.”

“It was a political calculation, not foreknowledge. As servants to our country we must sometimes plan for the worst outcomes despite how it may pain us to do so.”

Baras was standing in front of his seat now, addressing his fellows, his voice eminently reasonable.

“I mourned my dear friend’s death; no one here could possibly suggest otherwise.”

“Of course you mourned him, uncle. Very publicly, in a manner that allayed any suspicion about your true motives.”

“Are we going to listen to this child slander my name for the rest of the day?” He skewered her with a glare, his black eyes boring into hers. “You can all see, can you not, this is an act of vengeance. Once I’m dead, Lady Quinn can reclaim her holdings and cancel her husband’s debts. She has every reason to lie.”

Mara let her eyes widen in shock.

“Uncle, why on earth would I do that? To my knowledge no entailment has been filed; Pesegem remains property of Lord Quinn and its value is great enough to pay off his father’s debts, if only just. If Pesegam is what you want you only need wait.”

“Oh please, if Pesegam isn’t mine, then why is your staff starving under a siege?”

“I don’t know, Uncle, why _did_ you send men to harass my retainers?” She gasped, as if a thought just occurred to her. “It’s taking too long, isn’t it? Land sales take time, transferring deeds or even entailment takes months, over a year sometimes. Far longer than inheritance.”

“Is that why you sent Draagh to Gorinth House last night?”

“What?” That was Decimus.

“Yes, my lords.” She pointed to the bruises on her face. “These were earned at the hands of my uncle’s secretary. He and two others broke into our home late last night. We all sustained injury - they even shot at Lady Georgiana, if you can believe such savagery - but we prevailed in the end.”

“I can confirm those events,” Vowrawn put in. “And make no mistake, those men knew there were two Council members in the house; indeed the two fellows with Draagh were skulking outside my home for most of yesterday and followed Lady Nox and me to Gorinth House.”

The room was silent. Mara held her breath, hoping it was enough.

“This requires investigation,” Marr said finally. “Duke Baras, you will be taken into custody pending an investigation and trial.”

Two guards stepped forward. Mara’s hand was on the hilt of a knife concealed in her sleeve, eyeing her uncle warily. There was no way he would quietly submit to this.

“I demand the right of trial by combat.”

The room froze.

“I beg your pardon?” Marr asked.

“Under section twenty-four of His Majesty’s Penal Code, I am entitled to the right of trial by combat,” Baras said.

It seemed like a move borne of desperation; Mara fought back a grin at the thought of her aging uncle trying to best her in a fight. But his back was straight, head held high, utterly unconcerned with the thought of facing her.

“You would fight a woman to prove your innocence,” Marr said, incredulous. “There is no honor in that, Baras.”

“I am more than equal to the challenge,” Mara said. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Malavai shaking his head. She frowned but kept her attention on Marr.

“If you deem it a fair fight, Lady Quinn, we have no choice but to allow it.”

Mara grinned.

“Excellent, my lord.”

“The duel will commence in twenty minutes time. Standard dueling rules apply, and rapiers will be brought from the armory.”

Mara stiffened, her eyes flying to Marr’s face.

“Rapiers, my lord? I-“

“Yes, Lady Quinn. Unlike our Horusetian brethren we do not fight with whatever is handy. Such conflicts are subject to certain rules, and the rapier is the required weapon.”

Her uncle stared at her in triumph, for he knew as well as she that her training had followed Horusetian custom - saber, knives, and unarmed combat - while he had trained with a rapier at least twice a week for as long as she’d been alive.

The die had been cast; it was too late to back out now.

Ignoring the flip of nervousness in her stomach, she inclined her head respectfully to Marr.

“I agree to your terms.”

 ***

“Not one word,” Mara growled to Malavai.

They stood in a corner of the Council chamber awaiting the arrival of the rapiers Marr had requested from the armory, Mara seated on a table and Malavai pacing before her.

“Your grace, the question must be asked: can you defeat your uncle in such a contest?”

“I bested you, if you’ll recall.”

Her teasing tone didn’t bring the smile she hoped for; if anything, his blue eyes hardened.

“You wielded a saber. And you cheated.”

“I cheated to prove a point.”

He raised a dark eyebrow and she scowled. Of course she had a point to prove here, but she knew better. Rather, her conscious brain knew better. Hopefully she could rein in any instinct to lash out with feet or her free hand, and do so without focusing on it so hard as to give her uncle an unnecessary advantage. His experience and height were already advantage enough.

“Lady Thrask?”

Mara shook herself and turned her attention back to her husband. She must have looked properly worried now, for his countenance had softened considerably.

“I have to win this duel, Malavai. As I have no choice but to prevail, your question is moot.”

Mara stood when Lady Nox approached and took the proffered rapier, hilt first. The black durasteel guard wove a complicated helix around the hand she closed around the hilt. She hefted the sword experimentally. It was awkward - her muscle memory told her to slash rather than thrust - but at present seemed manageable.

“I have asked to act as your second,” Nox said, “but my request was denied. It was assumed by some of my fellows that I would not observe their dueling rules. That responsibility falls to your husband.”

Mara shot a glance at Malavai. _This is uncle Baras’s doing_.

“That is concerning given your injury; you’re in no shape to intercede should the need arise.”

His drawn brow said his concern mirrored hers, but he bowed his head.

“My injury is a secondary concern at present, your grace. My service as your second won’t be compromised in any way.”

She knew he meant it; he would bleed out on the Council chamber floor if she required it of him. _Well, it’s not as if the importance of my success weren’t already great enough_.

“You are only allowed to arm yourself with the rapier, Mara.”

She frowned at Nox, who raised a red eyebrow expectantly. With a start she became aware of the weight of the knives nestled against her skin.

“Ah, of course.”

She handed the sword to Malavai. His blue eyes widened, and Nox’s smirk grew, as Mara removed a knife from first one sleeve, then the other, and finally from a sheath on either side of her spine.

“Are you certain you haven’t missed any, your grace?”

Malavai stared in shock at the knives arranged on the table before him, but his smile was fond.

“Quite certain, I-” she halted, frowned, and raised her skirt enough to pull a final knife from her boot and laid it down with its fellows.  “There. Now I’m certain.”

“You were expecting quite a bit of trouble, I see,” Nox said.

“Yes, and I was correct, even if it took a slightly different shape than expected.” Mara grimaced at the rapier in her hand.

“Yes, well. I trust your training shall carry you through. Horuset’s prospects rest entirely upon you now.”

“I hadn’t guessed,” Mara replied dryly. “Thank you for that reminder, Lady Nox.”

The shorter woman chuckled and turned back toward the rest of the chamber.

“Are the adversaries prepared?” Marr’s voice boomed out, silencing the low hiss of whispered conversation.

Lord Ravage, acting as Baras’s second, standing at the opposite side of the row of Council chairs from Mara and her entourage, stepped forward.

“Duke Vikram Baras has challenged his niece, Lady Maranel Quinn, Countess of Balmorra, to answer for the slanderous tales of treason she has spread in this chamber.”

Mara ground her teeth. That she couldn’t even participate in this duel under her own name and title… she  clenched her hands into fists hard enough to make her knuckles whiten.

“Lady Quinn, how do you answer Duke Baras’s challenge?” Marr asked.

 Malavai stepped forward to answer, his voice as formal and ritualistic as Ravage’s and Marr’s.

“Lady Thrask holds to her accusations as truth, my lord. She will meet Duke Baras’s challenge, according to our ancient customs, in a duel before this Council.”

Mara’s heart soared at how her husband emphasized her title.

“The challenge is accepted,” Marr intoned. “The duel will take place within the confines of the floor between the council seating and will continue until death, or until one adversary forfeits their challenge.”

Mara smiled tightly. Forfeit would be tantamount to admitting to treason, a death sentence to be met at a later date, without weapon in hand. No, only she or her uncle would leave this chamber today.

“The adversaries will take their positions.”

Malavai bowed his head formally and handed the rapier back to her. She took it, their eyes meeting one final time. She winked at him and walked to the center of the room, standing with her toes grazing the edge of the Dromund Kaas seal. Her uncle took up a position opposite here and raised his weapon. She licked her lips and did the same. _He wants power_ , she reminded herself. _You act in defense of your people and those you love._ She raised her chin and looked her uncle straight in his black eyes.

At Marr’s signal, her uncle lunged at her. The staccato ping of steel colliding echoed throughout the silent chamber.

“You,” Baras growled as he advanced on her, “are an ungrateful wretch.”

He punctuated each word with a thrust of his blade. Mara parried each attack, but still gave a little ground each time. She barked a short laugh and lunged toward him. He turned her blade aside with a bored flick of his wrist, and in the half second she was open, opened a shallow cut across her free arm.

“You’ve no right to my gratitude,” she growled as she felt the blood run down the inside of her bicep.

“Do you know, for a time I seriously considered raising you as my own and leaving the Citadel and Pesegam to you upon my death.”

Mara caught his blade on hers and ducked under his arms, keenly aware she had been backed to the edge of the dueling field.

“But no, you are so _stubborn_ , clinging to a past you don’t even remember, hating me on sight. Utterly disloyal despite the vaunted Sith love of family. Would you even mourn me if you somehow prevailed here?”

The last word came out as a shocked gasp when Mara’s blade flashed past his to slice open his side. He paused, glancing down at the wound, and looked back at her, his smirk fading. Any other time, she might have worn a smirk of her own, but staring at the cut, all she could think was that it wasn’t nearly enough. Not enough to slow him down or give him what he deserved. She felt her eyes narrow.

“I’ll mourn you precisely as much as you mourned my father.” 

Baras’s face reddened and his sword flashed toward her. She barely got her own blade up in time, but managed to keep her form and footing.

“You have no idea how much I mourned my brother.”

“I was there,” she snapped as he scored another hit, this time in her shoulder and deeper than the first. Two trails of blood now trickled over her skin, hot then cooling quickly. “I remember how little you cared.”

“Stupid girl, he was dead to us for years before that. To call you after our mother after abandoning his family and duty,” Baras’s lip curled in disgust. “You are a mongrel perversion of everything that name represents.”

 Mara launched herself at her uncle with a wordless cry of rage, flashing through every form she knew in search of an opening, every impact of their blades meeting and every wound taken only infuriating her further. Baras smiled at her coldly.

“Our mother’s health never recovered from the blow of losing her favorite son to a Sith whore.”

She twitched away from his blade and scampered backward a few steps, staring at her uncle in shock. Surely he meant her to focus on the insult against her mother, but in the delivery was a bitterness that was all too real. She heard a gasping, wheezing laugh and realized it came from her own mouth. She was bleeding from half a dozen cuts while she’d only gotten through her uncle’s defenses twice, but a sudden confidence settled over her. How had she never seen it before now?

“You should check your library more often, uncle.” Her voice was musical. “Your mother spent a lot of coin studying Horuset.”

Her breathing became heavy when he renewed his attack, but she stood her ground, hoping his rage overcame him before she bled out too much more.

“How it must burn,” she mused loudly. The entire chamber had heard most of their conversation already, but she took care to speak clearly now. “Knowing your mother loved my father despite his betrayal of family and duty, while you stayed at the Citadel gathering power like a good little duke.”

Baras bellowed and swung at her wildly. She parried him with some difficulty - his blows fell heavier with his rage - but each attack left him far more open than it had before. Not enough to slip past unscathed, but then, she’d never planned to leave this duel unscathed.

With an unnaturally loud clang she turned his blade aside fractionally, and cried out when his sword slid through the soft tissue of her side. The edges of her vision grayed briefly, but she was shocked back to consciousness at her uncle’s surprised yell.

His black eyes wide, he stared down at the the blade embedded in his stomach.

“I will miss these talks, uncle.”

She yanked her blade out of his belly and stabbed it into his chest.

As he fell, she grabbed his blade, keenly aware it was staunching her bleeding for the moment. The only sound in the room was Baras gurgling on the floor, his blood flowing slowly over the seal of Dromund Kaas. Marr stared down at the duke dispassionately, green eyes completely blank. Mara counted her heartbeats, noting how quick they were, hoping he’d end the duel before she collapsed next to her uncle. Her knees were beginning to tremble. 

“Justice is done,” Marr announced, formally. “Let it be known that Duke Vikram Baras died a traitor, with his lands and title forfeit. Any debts owed him are forgiven, and his heirs may petition the government for the return of their property if they so desire.”

Mara inclined her head as an unpleasant tingling sensation blossomed over her scalp and skittered downward over her skin.

“Thank you, my- my lor-”

Darkness took her before she hit the floor.


	22. Where The Heart Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mara and Quinn work to heal the wounds Baras left behind; Mara goes home, bringing her heart with her. Some smut happens in the middle. I tried to make them wait until the end and they refused.

“There you are. Good afternoon.”

Mara inhaled sharply and turned toward the voice. Too quickly, it would seem, for her body protested the movement violently and she groaned.

“Slowly now,” Georgiana said, appearing at the side of the bed with a small glass of water, blonde brow drawn with concern. “You took quite a beating. Do you remember?”

After several steadying breaths, Mara nodded.

“Of course. One does not easily forget being run through with a rapier.” A look around confirmed she was in Malavai’s room, but her husband was nowhere to be found. “How long did I sleep?”

“A little more than a day. Malavai gave you something to help you sleep longer.”

The memories were returning, if fitfully; she had woven in and out of consciousness after collapsing. Mostly she remembered pain, cool, stinging air around her wounds as her clothing was trimmed away, and Malavai’s voice, clipped with worry, explaining her injuries and the treatments for them. She suspected that was more for his sake. At some point, she knew not how long it took, her uncle’s gurgling breath, a gruesome accompaniment to her husband’s work, had stopped. She had no memory whatsoever of how she returned to Gorinth House.

“He carried you himself,” Georgiana said into her thoughts, “from the carriage to these rooms. Here.” The younger woman’s arms were around her, easing her upright.

“I must have been unconscious for that,” Mara said, hissing softly as the stitches in her side stretched. She looked down and realized she was wearing a dressing gown. “Did he-“

“Of course not.” There was a soft _wump_ behind her as her sister-in-law fluffed her pillows and arranged them. Georgiana favored her with a sidelong glance. “My mother and I helped dress you in something more comfortable.”

“Where is he now?”

“Asleep in a guest room.” Georgiana grinned. “I chased him out of here several hours ago; he’d not slept since bringing you home. I’ll wake him for you in another hour or two. For now, drink this, and do feel free to fall back to sleep.”

Mara smiled and took the glass. She had barely consumed its contents before her eyelids began drooping shut. “Yes, my lady.”

“And Mara?”

With an effort Mara raised her head as Georgiana took the glass from her hands. “Yes?”

“Thank you.”

When she woke the next time, she heard Malavai’s soft intake of air before he moved into her field of vision. In truth, he looked about as bad as she felt: dark circles under his blue eyes, an extra day’s worth of stubble dusting his jaw and chin. She felt herself smile up at him.

“Your grace,” he breathed, half addressing her, half sighing in obvious relief. “How do you feel?”

“Alive.” Her voice became teasing. “Unless there’s some dire prognosis you’ve not informed me about?”

“Ah, no indeed, Lady Thrask, you’re quite perfect- that is,” he blushed and looked away. “That is, your recovery is progressing perfectly.”

“That is a compliment to your skill, Malavai; I was barely conscious.”

“Yes, well. Would you do me the kindness of warning me before you let someone run you through with a blade? You were lucky Du-“ he stopped and grimaced. “You were lucky Baras missed hitting anything vital.”

“It was worth it.” She felt her heart warm and she gestured weakly, reaching for his hand. He hesitated, then moved closer, allowing her to draw him into a sitting position at the edge of the mattress, his hand in hers. “You’re free of him, Malavai. We both are.” She paused as her throat suddenly threatened to close up. “He can’t threaten anyone ever again.”

Malavai’s eyes softened as she spoke, until he seemed near to weeping as well.

“You have saved us all, Lady Thrask.”

He lifted her hand then paused, a questioning look on his face. At her nod, he raised her hand to his lips. They were warm and his breath caressed her skin, just like it had when he’d first kissed her hand in her uncle’s vestibule nearly a year ago. This time, his eyes were closed and he inhaled deeply before releasing her hand, as if he intended to savor any physical contact she allowed.

Just as it had then, Mara’s heart thumped against her ribs. It took her several moments to reclaim her hand from his grip.

“I shall need to look at the wound,” he said finally. “That is, if you will allow me. I can ask Georgiana or anyone else you’re more comfortable with to assist me, if you wish.”

“That won’t be necessary, Malavai. What do you need me to do?”

He called for hot water and clean linens. When they arrived, he helped her roll onto her side, wincing apologetically at every pained sound she made - kriff but it hurt - then pulled the white blankets up to her hip before raising her dressing gown enough to get at the bandage. He stayed on the side of the bed facing her front, ensuring she had as much of her modesty intact as possible.

“This will sting,” he said as he removed the soiled bandage. “And will continue to sting until the wound has sufficiently closed.”

“I understand, I-“ her words were lost in a hissing groan when the warm, wet cloth made contact with her skin, sending needle points of fire into the wound.

This was far worse than the trifling slash Draagh had given her.

When it was done, and he’d applied a new, clean bandage, Zara arrived with a tray of food and took away the bowl of water - now pink with her blood - and soiled linens. Mara’s stomach growled loudly at the prospect of food, and she fell to with a will, inhaling most of a portion of stuffed pheasant before Malavai had taken more than a handful of bites.

“My apologies,” she said, feeling her cheeks warm. “I’m rather ravenous.”

Malavai smiled. “It’s quite understandable, Lady Thrask. You need to rebuild your strength.”

They ate in companionable silence for awhile, until Malavai cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Lord Vowrawn called yesterday afternoon; he’s eager to finalize settlement of Baras’s holdings. My mother and I turned him away, politely of course, but you should know he will want to see you as soon as you’re strong enough.”

He did not quite meet her gaze as he spoke, his tone a study in disinterest. Mara pressed her lips together. One of those holdings, so to speak, to settle was the question of their marriage and whether it should remain valid, given that her uncle had offered and signed the contract on her behalf.

“I’m not ready to see him yet,” she said quietly. “I’ll write to him and apprise him of my condition.”

Malavai met her gaze and nodded.

“Of course. I am happy to carry any messages you may need and will let him know when you are ready for him.”

That first day was spent largely in their rooms. That evening, Malavai helped her into bed.

“Zara can deal with the candles for you, your grace,” he said as he helped her settle against her pillows. “I will return in the morning.”

He turned to leave.

“Malavai.”

“Yes?”

“Will you... that is I’d like it if,” she stared down at her hands, blushing like a schoolgirl, inexplicably incapable of making the words come out. “You could stay with me, if you like.”

He frowned and cocked his head.

“Very well,” he said slowly. “I’ll only be a moment.”

He disappeared into his dressing room. Mara dozed lightly, jostled awake when he reappeared, dressed for bed, and climbed in next to her. She sighed as her body relaxed into the mattress, eyelids drifting shut before he’d extinguished the candles. They awoke the next morning within minutes of each other, still very much on their respective sides of the bed, but Mara found she had slept more soundly than she had since his betrayal.

They settled quickly into a routine: Malavai checked her wound every morning and evening, and in between those times he and Georgiana acted as dining company and walking companions, helping her about the townhouse and, when she became stronger, the streets around Gorinth House. Lady Quinn returned to Sobrik three days after Baras’s death, dispatched in her son’s name to assure the rattled house staff and tenants.

During her first walk outside the house, her hand nestled in the crook of Malavai’s arm, Mara found herself staring open-mouthed at a Kaasian lady who walked by in a jewel-green dress. The color and material were Kaasian; the silhouette was consummately Horusetian. The woman made brief eye contact with her, blushed, and hurried on her way.

“They have become quite fashionable,” Malavai said. “Lady Nox’s dressmaker has been run off her feet. Rather than inadvertently offend a powerful Kaasian house, she has refused to see any new clients until she has trained several Kaasian dressmakers in the art.”

“I never thought to see such a thing,” she breathed.

“It has gone beyond fashion, it would seem; Lady Nox has become a highly sought after dinner guest. Her Horusetian ideals regarding women in the public sphere have become the talk of many a drawing room, or so I’m told.”

Mara grinned. “I do hope the Kaasian ego is prepared for such a trial.”

“I suspect it will adapt, Lady Thrask. We are a proud lot, but most Kaasian men prefer to keep their household peaceful and so will bend their ear, eventually.”

He paused.

“Lord Vowrawn sent a note this morning, your grace, inquiring after your health and when he may be permitted to see you.”

Mara’s hand tightened on Malavai’s arm.

“I’m not ready. Not yet,” she said softly, staring straight ahead.

“Your grace, I,” Malavai paused, and Mara winced despite herself. “Forgive me if I am speaking out of turn, but is there anything I can do to help you prepare? I don’t know how much longer Vowrawn will be able to wait on these matters.”

Mara pressed her lips together. How to explain? She was unconcerned about the overall settlement of her late uncle’s holdings - Vette had the Citadel well in hand, and Mara had every intention of signing the estate and its lands over to her. And Pesegam… she longed to return home.

No, she was utterly unprepared to discuss their marriage. She knew that she wanted to stay with her husband and rebuild their relationship anew. Truth be told, she had most likely always known she would arrive at this conclusion; it’s what made his betrayal all the worse, and so she’d buried it until proof of his atonement had presented itself. Now, in the aftermath of her uncle’s death and her convalescence, it was undeniable. She didn’t wish to be parted from her husband.

Saying all of that, however, seemed impossible. She could request his presence, and show him, moment to moment, how dearly she valued his company. She could even profess her love abstractly, as she had before she’d faced her uncle. But acting on it - telling him she wished to remain with him for the rest of their lives… it was a far more daunting prospect.

“This is not something you can hurry, Malavai,” she said softly. “Please, give me time.”

She felt the tension in his body, but he nodded.

Over the next fortnight Vowrawn called twice more despite Mara’s letters requesting privacy for a time. Each time Malavai’s struggle to give her the space she desired became more visible. Finally, over luncheon, it became unbearable.

“Lady Thrask, we must discuss Lord Vowrawn’s requests for a meeting.”

Mara froze in her seat, her fork halfway to her mouth, her mind racing, gaze darting to Malavai’s and away again, only to find herself skewered by a second intense blue gaze coming from her sister-in-law.

“Truly, I don’t know how much longer he can delay-“

A door opened and Jillins entered. Mara relaxed fractionally and said a silent thanks to whatever deity had intervened on her behalf.

“Forgive me, Lord Quinn, Lady Georgiana. This just arrived for Lady Quinn.”

He held a tray out to Mara. She took the letter from it, her eyes widening. It was addressed to Lady Maranel Thrask.

The handwriting was Tremel’s.

She stared at it for several long moments, then shook herself when she remembered the footman was still standing next to her.

“Thank you, Jillins. That will be all.”

He bowed and withdrew. Mara’s thumb was under the sealing wax before the door had closed completely.

“It’s from Tremel,” she said absently into the silence, heart pounding as she read.

“What news does he bring?” Malavai asked, his brow knit with worry.

“Good news; the bulk of Baras’s retainers were arrested for their incursion, and the rest have fled. My staff survived the siege intact,” she looked up at Malavai, “thanks to you.” She trailed off and continued reading, and gasped.

“Your grace?”

Mara’s head jerked up to look at her husband, stomach fluttering with nerves and excitement.

“He asks me to return to Pesegam. I-“ she looked down at the paper and back up, eyes moist. “If we leave tomorrow we’ll arrive on my birthday.”

“We?” Malavai’s voice was far too neutral.

Mara smiled. “You and I. I’m not quite well enough to make the trip alone and,” she hesitated, “and I’ve always wanted to show you my home.”

Georgiana inhaled sharply, lips twitching as she fought a grin, and she looked at her brother expectantly. Malavai, for his part, simply stared as if she’d spoken to him him in Huttese.

“You want me to accompany you?”

“Of course, why wouldn’t I-“ Mara halted, realizing there was a perfectly reasonable answer to that question. “I would share this with you, Malavai, if you’ll allow me. Please.”

“Of course,” he said finally. “I-“

His words were muffled by Mara’s arms going round his neck.

“Thank you,” she whispered against his ear, before pulling back. His eyes and mouth all seemed to be the same shape. “You will be pleased, I think. Pesegam is lovely in summer… or rather, it was.” Her voice fell on those last words, but she shook her head and brightened. “I’ll call Zara to begin packing. Perhaps after we’ve been there for a time, Georgiana can come visit as well.”

She winked at her sister-in-law and hurried out of the room.

***

Quinn jerked awake when the carriage found another stone or rut in the road, jostling him inelegantly. Only stern attention kept him from cracking his skull on the carriage window. The countryside sliding past had changed drastically during the last six hours of travel: the earth turned an odd burnt red color, and the familiar greens of Dromund Kaas gave way to sparse yellowing grass. Craggy mountains in the distance seemed a bit greener.

His eyes had just begun to drift closed again when the carriage jumped. He fought back a sigh. He’d not slept well the previous evening. He and Mara had arrived at a delicate understanding in their bed - in his bed - at Gorinth House, and had slept quite normally in one another’s company in the weeks since Mara slayed her uncle on the floor of the Council chambers. Last night, however, they stopped the at an inn at Vaiken Township and spent the night in an unfamiliar bed.

The foreign surroundings seemed to heighten the awkwardness between them; Mara tossed and turned less than he did, but from the way her body tensed every time he shifted, he knew she’d slept no more than he. But now, as they travelled the last kilometers to Pesegam, his wife had the adrenaline of excitement to sustain her, whereas he felt only his own building confusion of the past few weeks and the unnerving prospect of spending an unknown length of time in surroundings just as unfamiliar as the room they’d just let.

His wife. Some part of his brain scolded him for referring to her as such. True, she had become more comfortable with him in recent weeks and seemed to want, even need, his presence. She had invited him to share her homecoming. But she made no move or indication that she wished to return to the level of intimacy they shared before his betrayal. Indeed, every time he tried to broach the subject of their marriage and future emotional prospects, she changed the subject entirely or became taciturn and silent.

Quinn shot a glance across the carriage at Mara. He’d barely recognized her when she joined him for breakfast. She wore a tight-fitting Horusetian gown, this one a deep purple, her dark hair woven into a complicated braid adorned with golden ornaments. The only piece of jewelry he recognized was the diadem on her forehead; she’d worn it to the opera the night before Baras had forced their marriage. Beyond that, she wore several pieces of heavy, golden jewelry he’d never seen before. Most of it was obscured now; she was wrapped in a lightweight red cloak, her gold-plaited braid pulled forward over her shoulder.

She was still stunning, and he still felt that rush of warmth when he looked at her. But she was also the most complicated kriffing puzzle he’d ever worked through.

Feeling his eyes on her, she shifted and met his gaze. She smiled, a touch guiltily, he thought, and extended a hand.

“Sit with me?”

He hesitated, then took her hand and let her pull him into the seat next to her. He winced as the carriage seemed to rise up to meet his backside.

“We’re nearly there.”

He followed her gesture and saw the craggy mountains he’d seen earlier, but far closer. The land became greener the closer they got, resolving into a forest sprinkled across that same red Horusetian clay. Mara pulled the carriage window down and a cool breeze - far cooler than summers Quinn was used to - and the smell of fresh pine washed over them. It wasn’t until her hand tightened in his that she realized she’d not let go of him after pulling him to her side of the carriage.

“Lady Thrask?”

“I’m fine,” she answered without looking at him. He was certain her voice quavered but took her at her word.

Suddenly they burst into a clearing, the early evening sun unexpectedly bright after the shade of the forest. A Horusetian garden spread around them, marred somewhat by evidence of recently-abandoned camps. Ahead, and still a little above them, Pesegam loomed.

It was larger than Sobrik, but not quite so imposing as the Citadel. A large square stone building with a domed center roof and parapets to either side, dotted with evenly-spaced windows with curved tops. The carriage pulled up in front of a broad set of steps that led into a wide, curved doorway. Two lines of staff in Thrask livery were arrayed on either side of the door, their backs proud.

At their center, in front of the door, stood a tall man with dark hair greyed at his temples. He wore the baggy breeches and long coat Quinn had seen sketches of in the books from the Citadel library, all in ink blue with a rearing mowhef stitched in gold on his breast.

Mara turned toward Quinn, amber eyes wide, and took a shuddering breath. He opened his mouth but his question was forestalled by the sound of the carriage door being opened. At his wife’s slight nod, he allowed the footman to help him out and turned to take Mara’s hand.

With the cool breeze rustling it was difficult to ascertain whether the staff arrayed before them took a collective breath when their mistress’s foot touched Horusetian ground for the first time in fifteen years, but there was no mistaking the shift in their posture as they all stood impossibly straighter.

Mara’s amber gaze took them all in swiftly, and she nodded her appreciation to the footman and reclaimed her hand from Quinn’s grip.

“Welcome home, your grace.”

The center man - he had to be Tremel - dropped gracefully to one knee. Though his voice was clear and strong, the setting sun glinted off the tears that ran down his dark skin.

“Mr. Tremel.” Mara took a step forward and raised him gently to his feet. “Darrow.” Tremel’s brown eyes widened when she used his given name. “It is thanks to you,” she raised her voice and looked around at her entire staff, “thanks to all of you, I have a home to return to. It has been far too long.”

“You wear the years with grace, Lady Thrask. It has been our honor to preserve what is rightfully yours.”

Tremel motioned forward a young woman; her brown eyes had the same glint to them as Tremel’s, and she wore the same baggy breeches and long coat, cut for a woman, and a saber strapped to her side.

“My daughter Eskella, your grace. She has acted as the captain of your honor guard. I hope it is not impertinent to say it, but she is the best bladeswoman I’ve ever seen. I happily entrust your life to her and I know she will make an instructive sparring partner.”

Eskella bowed low. “My blades are yours to unleash, Lady Thrask.” Her tone was formal, almost ritualistic.

Mara inclined her head.

“I accept your blades, Eskella Tremel, and will wield them with wisdom and cunning.” The formal response ended, Mara smiled. “You’re looking well, Eskella. I look forward to your testing my limits.”

“I will do my utmost, your grace.”

Mara gestured to Quinn. He swallowed nervously and stepped forward.

“I believe you are already acquainted with Earl Malavai Quinn, Mr. Tremel.”

Tremel bowed.

“Indeed, your grace. Lord Quinn, it is an honor to meet you at last. We were quite happy to receive your assistance over the last six weeks.”

Quinn bowed his head in return. He noted that Mara had introduced him without specifying their relationship; he also noted that Tremel in no way considered Pesegam indebted to him; Quinn’s assistance, rather, was seen as the just atonement for his actions.

“Mr. Tremel. It was my privilege to do what I could to aid you.”

Tremel nodded fractionally, as if deeming the response satisfactory, and turned back to Mara.

“With your permission, your grace, I will show you to your rooms.” He cast a slightly questioning glance at Quinn.

Quinn nearly jumped with surprise when Mara slipped her hand into the crook of his arm.

“Please, Mr. Tremel, that would be wonderful.”

“I see. This way.”

The interior of the house had a large, open-air feel: high ceilings and archways of polished, warm-white stone, dotted with colorful murals and stone mosaics. Large, colorful rugs peppered the white marble floors. They ascended two staircases and were closing in on an ornately-carved pair of double doors when Mara abruptly stopped.

“These are my parents’ rooms.”

“They are the Duchess’s rooms, Lady Thrask,” Tremel said gently.

She eyed the doors warily, as a mouse would eye a sleeping cat.

“The late Duchess would not want you to live in your childhood room forever, your grace.”

Mara stared at Tremel for a moment.

“I… yes, of course. Thank you, Tremel, if you’d give us some privacy, please?”

“Of course. You need only call if you need me, Lady Thrask.” Tremel bowed and walked back the way they came.

Mara waited until he was gone, then stepped forward, a hand on either doorknob, and pushed. The doors gave way silently. She took a deep breath and stepped inside.

Quinn followed, and found himself in a large, high-ceilinged sitting room, the creamy walls trimmed with abstract, undulating mosaics in blue, gold, and red tiles. The color scheme was repeated in the floor, that same warm marble cross hatched in blue, red and gold. Plush Horusetian couches dotted the sitting room, two arranged around a low, lacquered pinewood table. Through an elaborate archway he could make out a huge four-post bed, it and the couches all piled with pillows in a rainbow of jewel tones.

A large painting dominated one end of the sitting room. It depicted a willowy Sith woman in a black Horusetian gown, perched on a couch, her back straight and proud, her amber eyes piercing. Her braided hair and her forehead were adorned with the same ornaments Mara now wore. Behind her stood a human man, his sandy hair and dark eyes familiar despite his beard and darker skin. One of his hands was on the woman’s shoulder; the other rested on the shoulder of a young Sith girl who stood next to the couch. Perhaps seven years old, dark hair loose and wild, she smirked out from the painting as if she had played a prank the viewer had yet to discover.

Quinn couldn’t help but grin, wondering how much trouble he’d have gotten up to if he’d known that Sith girl when he was a child; would he have been annoyed by her irreverence, or would he have fallen under her spell as easily then as he had now?

“Marsah.”

His momentary humor was cut short by Mara’s broken whisper. Quinn reached for his wife before he could stop himself. Far from resisting, she threw herself into his arms, her face buried in his chest, as great heaving sobs wracked her body. He cupped her head with one hand and stroked her back with the other as she cried.

“I had almost forgotten,” Mara gasped, pulling back to look up at the painting again. “I only had a miniature of each of them. I had almost forgotten what they looked like.” She looked around the room, her breathing becoming ragged again. “Fifteen years of fighting and I’d nearly forgotten what I was fighting for.”

“You were a child when Baras took you away from here, your grace,” he said gently, drawing her down onto one of the couches. “A child forced to mimic her captors to survive.”

She pressed her face into the crook of his neck and continued to sob quietly. His stomach twisted with anger as he held her. Perhaps he’d deliberately avoided thinking of how it must have been for her, torn from her home and left in the care of a hostile relative, but staring up at the painting of the family she’d lost… Baras had met a far more peaceful end than he deserved.

“Sith teach their children to be strong, do they not?” Quinn asked into her hair. When she nodded, he continued, “Lady Thrask, you have survived fifteen years as a prisoner to your uncle. Against all odds,” he grimaced, “you restored your birthright and brought that uncle to justice. Your mother would be proud of your fortitude.”

“I wish everything didn’t feel so unfamiliar.” She sat up and sniffled. “All my life I’ve been trained to run an estate, and it’s never seemed daunting until now. How am I to lead here when I feel so out of place?”

Quinn chuckled.

“You're too hard on yourself, your grace.” At her questioning look he took her hand, examining the heavy gold bracelets and large ring she wore. “We have been here no more than an hour and already you carry yourself as the mistress of this house. Within the week it will be Kaasian rituals that seem so foreign to you.”

“I hope not, at least not entirely,” she said, her fingers lacing with his. “There are some Kaasian rituals I hold dear.”

Quinn’s heart leapt in his chest.

“There are?”

“Of course.” She hesitated, as if weighing her words. “Thank you for accompanying me, Malavai. I’m,” she trailed off, her eyes shifting to the painting, then back to his face. “I know I will settle in given time. But having you here makes it easier for me to… to be myself.”

“You honor me, your grace, truly. It’s exciting to see you achieve what you’ve dreamt of for so long.”

“So I excite you, do I?”

Quinn froze. Her voice held that knowing sizzle that set his blood on fire and her lips were turned up in a mischievous smirk. He worked moisture into a suddenly dry throat.

“I believe you know the answer to that question, Lady Thrask.”

“Perhaps.”

Her eyes held his as she raised his hand to her lips. He gasped - groaned, really - when her soft mouth touched his flesh. She gently kissed each of his knuckles, then turned his hand over and pressed her cool lips to his palm. It had been so long; the barest of teasing and already he ached for her intimately. Still, the rational part of his brain held on.

“Your grace, I cannot- I must know-“

She pressed her free hand over his mouth. “Mara,” she said softly.

“What?” The word was garbled through her fingers, but his wide eyes conveyed the feeling eloquently.

“You may use my given name, if you wish.” She lowered her hand.

“You’re certain?”

“I would prefer it. Please.”

As if he wanted to refuse her. He felt tears of relief pooling at the corners of his eyes.

“Mara.” Her name felt like home. Tentatively, he reached out to cradle her cheek. Her eyes slid closed and she leaned into his hand. “My dearest Mara.”

She gave a little moaning sob and pulled him to her.

 

Mara twined her fingers in Malavai’s hair as his arms went around her and their lips met. Their kiss outside the Council chambers before her duel with her uncle had been but the barest taste of the heat that flowed between them now. Her entire body seemed to vibrate with it.

She’d been afraid then, stoically facing death; he had remained cautious, mindful of the barriers she’d erected after his betrayal.

All of that was gone now. With those hurdles cleared, all that remained was the sudden, visceral realization that it had been months since she’d touched him, tasted him, made him mad for her.

Months since his teeth had found that tender spot just below her ear. She cried out, her eyes rolling back in her head, and arched her back instinctively.

“I shall have to, oh,” she gasped as he bit her again, “I must confer with my physician as to whether I’m well enough to continue.”

“That is excellent forethought, your grace,” he said. He looked down at her with a rakish smile that set her heart racing. “I’ll simply have to undress you to examine the wound in question.”

Mara was already working on the knot of his cravat - why was it always so bloody complicated? - and she nodded thoughtfully.

“I concur; I would not want you to guess incorrectly.” She laughed triumphantly when his cravat finally gave way and let it fall to the ground.

Malavai lifted her into his lap. She shoved his tailcoat down his arms; he pulled his arms out of the sleeves and then hugged her close to begin work on the buttons running down the back of her gown. She felt his head move against hers as he looked up, and his hands stilled over the first button.

“Darling, might we move to a location where your parents aren’t staring at me?”

She laughed, turning to look up at the painting.

“They would have adored you, dearest, but I understand your hesitance.” She climbed to her feet and pulled him with her through the archway to the bed. Malavai turned her toward a bedpost and gave heaved a frustrated sigh.

“No gown requires this many buttons.”

“Perhaps I simply enjoy aggravating you.”

“I shall have to do something about that if s," he growled.

Her bodice loosened, and she felt his lips on the ridges at the base of her neck, sending shivers of pleasure through her body. He slowly trailed kisses down her spine as he conquered each button. Finally, he pushed the sleeves forward and she freed her arms, and then let the gown fall from her body. Malavai’s teeth abruptly raked her shoulder, and his arms went around her from behind, the buttons of his waistcoat digging into her back, his fingers sliding down her stomach to the apex of her thighs. She mewled when he delicately stroked his fingertips over her cleft. She arched her back, aching for more, and hissed in protest when he pulled away.

“This is quite unfair, Malavai.”

“Perhaps I simply enjoy aggravating you,” he replied, his lips brushing her ear.

She groaned, hands tightening around the bedpost.

“Besides, I’ve not determined whether your wound will permit me to continue.”

The fingertips that had been teasing her so mercilessly slid down her back, and he bent her forward a little to get better access to the exit wound low on her left side. She gasped when she felt his lips feathering tiny kisses around the stitched area.

“This looks nearly healed; let me examine the front.” He turned her around gently, pushed her against the bedpost and slipped to his knees before her, fingertips ghosting across her skin as he examined the entry wound.

“Ah, yes,” he said, blue eyes dark with lust when he looked up at her. “You have healed nicely. Still….” He trailed off as his fingertips returned to teasing her sensitive cunt.

Mara moaned and arched her back, months of celibacy heightening every touch.

“Do you experience any discomfort when you stretch like that?” he asked. At her breathy _no_ , his fingers crooked up and into her. “And now?”

“Malavai.” His name came out as a needy gasp.

“My love?” his voice quivered.

“I need you, oh gods I need-” her eyes slid closed as she spoke. In that moment Malavai’s mouth was on her, his hot tongue sliding along her cleft, seeking her clit.

She wailed his name when he found it, her hips jumping against his face. She felt him chuckle against her, his hands digging into the flesh of her thighs to pull her against him.

Her head fell back against the bedpost, one hand twined in his hair as she ground herself against his face. Her other hand held the bedpost in a vice grip, knuckles white, as her long cries became staccato shouts of encouragement. Suddenly he shoved his fingers into her, and she could hold back no longer. Something between a moan and a sob filled the room and her legs shook violently until one knee buckled and she suddenly landed on her backside, her head knocking against the bedpost.

She was laughing before she hit the ground, her body still tingling with her climax despite the interruption.

“I must confess, I remembered you being more graceful than this,” Malavai said dryly.

“This is hardly _my_ fault,” she protested between giggles.

He shook his head, smiling, but he was inspecting her wound again. “In seriousness, are you alright?”

Mara inhaled deeply, trying to control her laughter.

“I’m unharmed, but I wouldn’t posit that I’m alright,” she purred.

He met her purr with a growl and then her lips were on his, plundering his mouth with her tongue as her still-shaking hands fought with the buttons of his waistcoat. He raked his fingernails across her nipples, and she pulled away enough to cry out, the exquisite pain thoroughly shattering what little dexterity she had left.

“I brought others,” he ground out.

“Oh, thank the gods.”

She gave a sharp tug and three buttons clattered across the tile floor. He removed his hands from her skin long enough to discard the waistcoat, tossing it carelessly away. His shirt followed, torn feverishly from the waist of his trousers. Mara rose to her knees and yanked one boot off, then the other, falling backward a little when the last boot gave way. Quinn made quick work of his trousers, and as he shoved them aside Mara scrambled toward him, throwing herself into his arms hard enough to slam him backward into the footboard. He grunted with the impact, but his arms went around her, his teeth scouring her shoulder.

“I missed you so,” she whispered, then shifted down from his ear to press her lips to his neck.

She could feel his pulse beneath her lips, and he moaned, his hand tangled in her braided hair.

“I never thought to feel this again,” he said, his voice rising when she ground herself against him. “Mara, please.”

She looked into his eyes.

“Tell me what you want, Malavai.”

His hand twisted in her hair, yanking her head down to his neck.

“Mark me.” His voice was just shy of pleading.

She ran her tongue over his flesh, inhaling his scent.

When his free hand stroked the ridges at the base of her spine, she mewled and arched her back, dragging her wet cunt across his cock and drawing another desperate growl from him.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice strained. “I’m yours, darling, I want-“

His words gave way to a guttural groan when she raked him with her teeth. The sound stoked the fire in her veins and she bit him again, working at him until his pale flesh blossomed a deep purple. His hands were on her hips, gripping painfully and lifting her up. She felt the head of his cock at her entrance and moaned, her muscles tightening with anticipation.

“Malavai, the bed-“

She moved to push herself up off the floor, but his arms tightened around her.

“Hush.”

Her head tipped back as he filled her slowly, lowering her gently onto his cock and letting her feel every centimeter of him. She hugged him tightly as she settled against him, inexplicable tears pricking her eyes.

His tongue on the ridges of her chest sent a bolt of need through her and she began moving, riding him slowly in long strokes, rising up until he was nearly free of her before sinking back down, luxuriating in the feel of him inside her after so long. Their panting moans echoed off the tile floor and the footboard, enveloping them in the sound of their pleasure, their volume building as she picked up her pace.

“I forgot how good you feel,” she whimpered into his hair, dragging her nails across his shoulders, four red lines left in their wake.

“I shall help you remember,” he growled back, his arms wrapping tightly around her waist to hold her still.

He thrust up into her hard, the thud of the impact reverberating up her spine. His teeth found her nipple, raking her and biting harshly and she keened; he’d not forgotten precisely how to drive her mad.

“Again,” she begged. “Kriff, please.”

“This is not ideal,” he answered with a laugh.

“Then make it ideal,” she snapped back.

He lifted her off him and stood, then spun her around and shoved her face into the mattress, her ass in the air. He stopped for a fraction of a second to admire her before hilting himself in her. The comforter muffled her strangled curse and twisted in her fists as she fought to hang on.

He rode her in the long strokes she loved, but with enough force to drive her feet off the ground.

“Kriff, yes, oh gods never, ever stop. Please, darling,” her voice rose as she continued her wanton pleas.

He gave her everything she begged for and more, every thrust of his hips punctuated with a primal grunt. Before long she was shaking and shrieking indiscriminately, and his hands were digging into her hips as he held her steady.

“Mara, I’m going to-“

He groaned and came, the force of his final thrust echoing through her body and pushing her over again, and she screamed and convulsed around him, grateful that he remained steady even in the throes of his own climax; she would certainly have collapsed to the floor otherwise.

After a long moment he separated from her and carefully lowered her feet back to the floor. She stood shakily, her knees wobbling, and he swept her into his shaking arms long enough to lay her on the bed lay down beside her.

“Happy birthday, darling,” he gasped when his breathing had slowed slightly.

Mara wrapped an arm around him and laid her head on his chest.

“This is certainly one of the better gifts I’ve ever received,” she murmured, nuzzling his chest and feeling his chest hair scrape her cheek.

“You flatter me, my dear, but I _am_ yours, and yours alone.”

She sat up on an elbow so she could look into those obscenely blue eyes.

“I know.” She reached up with her free hand to cradle his cheek. “I forgive you, Malavai.”

His eyes widened and suddenly shone with unshed tears.

 

“Mara, I- That is-” Quinn snapped upright, pulling Mara to him with an arm around her waist, his other pushing loose  strands of hair back from her face. “Thank you.”

It sounded trite, but Quinn found his mind had gone white with surprise; words were nearly beyond him. Her hand slid from his cheek down to his neck, tightening slightly.

“Don’t ever hurt me like that again,” she said.

Despite the threatening thumb on his windpipe, her face held that same shattered grief he remembered from the day of their marriage. He held her closer and tilted her chin up to meet his gaze.

“Never. I will swear any oath you wish, bear any proof you desire that I am yours for the rest of my life.”

“You’ve proven yourself already, Malavai, else you wouldn’t be here. Just please, I cannot….” She closed her eyes and took a shuddering breath. Her hand returned to his cheek. “I can’t do this a second time.”

“You won’t have to,” he said.

“Good.” She smiled and ran her fingers through his hair. “At any rate, darling, I suspect bearing any proof of our affection will fall to me, unless Kaasian men differ from Horusetian men in ways I’ve not been made aware of.”

He laughed. Stars, how he had missed her humor.

“I was speaking metaphorically, dear.”

“I am happy to make any adjustments necessary, but it is a relief to know I had not assumed incorrectly.”

She looked around the room, her smile fading.

“That I am here, finally, still feels like a dream,” she murmured. She pushed him back into the pillows and followed, her warm body curling against him. “The very best dream.”

As with so many things, Quinn found he had to agree with her.

***

“Lady Thrask?”

Mara twitched away from the hand that was gently shaking her shoulder.

“Zara? What in blazes-”

Her eyes snapped open in confusion before she remembered: the warm marble walls, the tile. She was at Pesegam. It wasn't a dream. And next to her…. She turned her head to the right, already knowing he was there based on the pale arm that was around her waist and the warm legs tangled with hers. She kissed Malavai’s forehead and his brow furrowed in confusion, then his eyes fluttered open.

“Good morning,” she said, smiling around the words.

He smiled in return.

“What a sight to be greeted with first thing.”

Mara laughed. “You are indeed a lucky man, Malavai.”

“The luckiest, to be in such a woman’s bed.”

“And to have you in mine? My luck rivals yours.”

He leaned in to kiss her, and beside the bed Zara cleared he throat pointedly. Malavai leapt backward, nearly taking the covers with him. When he landed he was fully ensconced up to his chin in the sheets, his modesty only somewhat ruined by his erect cock pressing against its hastily-constructed prison.

Mara sat up, heedless of her nudity.

“What is it, Zara?”

“Breakfast is on its way up, your grace.”

Mara frowned. “I haven’t ordered breakfast.”

“No, your grace, but Mr. Tremel thought it important given that you… both… missed dinner yesterday evening.” Her tone held a distinct note of disapproval at the affront. Mara winced; she would need to apologize to her cook. “And Lord Vowrawn sent a man this morning to inquire after your health and propose a visit for luncheon.”

Vowrawn. The man was nothing if not persistent. Perhaps she’d evaded him long enough.

“Thank you, Zara. Please send a messenger to Dreshdae to extend an invitation to Vowrawn for luncheon.” She smiled. “Or, rather, to approve the invitation he so rudely granted himself on my behalf.”

“Yes, your grace. And breakfast?”

Mara’s stomach rumbled at the prospect of food. They had indeed skipped dinner, and spent that time energetically.

“Ask Melora to send it up in fifteen minutes.”

“Very good, your grace. I took the liberty of unpacking your things; they are in your dressing rooms.”

“Wonderful, Zara, thank you.”

When the door closed behind her maid, Mara turned back to her husband, chuckling as she unwound him from the covers.

“I should have warned you,” she said when she finally pulled back the final layer of bedding to reveal his pale, muscular chest. It took all of her self control not to climb back on top of him, but fifteen minutes was not nearly enough time to sate her nascent lust. “Horusetian servants stand on very little ceremony.”

“I see that,” he replied flatly. “It doesn’t seem right that your maid should see me so… undone.”

Mara laughed.

“If your reflexes remain that quick, she may never do so. But I doubt you’ve anything she hasn’t seen before, dear. And,” she trailed her fingernails down his chest and stomach, loving the gasp she tore from him, “you’re likely a finer specimen than most she’s seen.”

His reply was cut off by an insistent gurgling from his stomach.

“You must dress, Malavai, if you don’t want my staff to intrude upon your modesty.”

She pulled him out of bed and to their shared dressing room. By the time Zara returned with two footmen and their breakfast, Malavai was wrapped in his burgundy robe and Mara had donned a loose chamber gown of golden silk. Mara surveyed the breakfast tray as Zara and the footmen withdrew, her heart beating hard in her chest.

Her first Horusetian food in fifteen years.

“The eggs, olives, and capratine I recognize,” Malavai said. “Although I don’t think I’ve ever had olives with breakfast. What are these?”

Mara sat next to him on the couch and gestured at a serving plate  filled with several flat, disc-shaped cakes, nearly the same warm white as the marble walls and perforated with bubbles.

“Semolina frycakes - they’re wonderful with dzaitzi honey and apricot preserves. And….” she picked up an alabaster teapot from the center of the tray, opened the lid, and inhaled. It had a marvelously earthy smell, with a hint of smoke. For half a second she was six years old, padding into her parents’ sitting room for breakfast, brandishing olive-tipped fingers at her father until her mother admonished her for playing with her food.

“Mara?”

She shook herself.  “Forgive me, it’s just…. Fifteen years,” she said helplessly.

“There’s nothing to forgive. Would you prefer me to leave you to your reverie in future?”

“No, please. It’s important to remember what I left behind, but I’m here with you now, and I would not miss that.”

She poured the tea into two tall, clear teacups. The dark tea highlighted the gilded scrollwork decorating the outside wall of each cup.

“Korribani black tea,” she identified it. “The tea leaves are grown and smoked by House Sivak. Their estate is just outside of Korriban, hence the name.”

He took an experimental sip, eyes widening.

“It tastes like a bonfire.”

Mara smiled and raised her own cup to her lips. “I know. You can sweeten it with the dzaitzi honey if you like, but you should be warned it will lend a low heat to the tea.”

Malavai took another sip, eyes staring into the middle distance thoughtfully, before doing as she suggested and trying it again.

“Ah, that’s better.”

“A sweetened bonfire?”

“Just so.”

“I can ask Melora to prepare a pot of coffee in the morning if you prefer, Malavai. We- well, I won’t be offended. Melora, like most Horusetian cooks, is quite proud of her work and so she may take offense initially.”

He chuckled. “You must have been dear friends with Mrs. Halidrell if you believe Kaasian cooks are not also particularly protective of their work. And thank you, but I’d like to see if the tea improves upon further acquaintance.”

Malavai served himself from the platters. They settled back and ate in silence for a time, Mara contemplating how to broach the subject she’d been avoiding ever since she killed her uncle. She took a sip of her tea and sat, staring into the dark liquid for several minutes. Her husband paused in his breakfast and sat back, waiting.

“Malavai we need to discuss the settlement of my uncle’s holdings. There are things I’d rather not discuss in front of Vowrawn.”

“Of course.” He did not sound surprised in the least. If anything, he seemed relieved she was finally bringing it up.

“Your father’s debt will be forgiven, of course.” That had never been a question in her mind. She reached out and took his hands in hers. “But I would also like to annul our marriage.”

He went completely still for a heartbeat before pulling his hands from hers.

“I don’t understand,” he said, his voice wavering slightly. “I- of course, I accept your decision but I thought, especially after last night-“

“You misunderstand,” she cut in gently. “I want to annul the contract my uncle forced on us both. I want to marry you of my own free will, in front of people who actually care for us.”

He stared at her blankly, head cocked. She winced internally.

“I’m sorry, I should have begun with that, not the other,” she said. She reached out slowly and, at his slight nod, took his hands again.

“That… would have been preferable,” he agreed, his eyes locking with hers. “That having been said, I think I concur,” he said slowly.

“Good.” She kissed the back of his hand and then slipped to her knees before him. His eyes, which had only just returned to their normal size, once again widened with surprise.

“What? This _is_ appropriate Kaasian custom, is it not, when seeking a person’s hand in marriage?”

He gave a soft, helpless laugh. “Yes, but it is typically the male partner who does so.”

Mara wrinkled her nose.

“How unimaginative. May I continue?”

He nodded, his cheeks darkening with a blush that brought to mind their first few months together, when everything about her irreverent manner shocked him.

“There is a saying in Horuset - ‘To dance in the fires of passion by night, you must tend the ember coals by day’. It forms the foundation of how many of us approach romantic love. I did not truly grasp its meaning until I met you.”

She stared at their entwined hands for a moment, searching for words.

“It’s no secret that we burn like wildfire together, Malavai.” She smiled, remembering how they’d consumed each other mere hours ago, and his blush deepened, but he smiled in return. “But with you, I find myself… caring in a way I never have.”

Her smile faded. “You cannot know how relieved I was to learn how you’d worked to atone for your betrayal. All those weeks at Sobrik, despite my anger, those embers were alive, and I found myself tending them almost unconsciously. Had you not done what you did for Vette and Jaesa, for Pesegam…. Leaving you would have broken my heart as much as  your betrayal did.”

She looked up at him again and saw the same tears on his cheeks that marked her own. She sniffled and forged on.

“All this is to say… you, my most Kaasian lord, are everything I have ever wanted. Will you, Lord Malavai Quinn of Balmorra, do me the honor of becoming my husband and duke, properly, sworn before our loved ones?”

“Mara,” he breathed, his voice shaking. “My dearest love, the honor will be entirely mine. You are unlike any woman I’ve ever known, and I could not have designed a more perfect mate. Of course I’ll be yours.”

A giddy laughter bubbled out of Mara as she fairly launched herself upward to claim his lips in a heated kiss. He tasted of honey and smoke. Stars, she would never get tired of kissing him.

“I suppose we ought to dress fully before Vowrawn arrives,” Malavai murmured.

Mara took a deep breath.

“I suppose you’re correct. After he leaves I can give you a tour of the estate.”


	23. Metanoia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mara and Quinn clear the air between them and commit to one another on their own terms.

“Lord Quinn, given your remarkably good demeanor despite this annulment, I take it you’ve achieved that goal you’ve longed for as much as I’ve longed for Baras’s excision from Horuset.”

Vowrawn raised a brow stalk as Quinn slid the declaration of annulment across the table to Mara. The sharp-eyed councilor clearly noticed the glance that passed between them and the way their hands lingered together when she took the pen from him.

Quinn’s cheeks warmed and Mara chuckled as she completed her signature with a flourish.

“Upon my word, Lord Vowrawn,” she chided him, “Inviting yourself to my home and presuming to know our business? I’d expect such impertinence from Lady Nox, not you.”

Vowrawn inclined his head, smiling openly.

“If merely using my eyes is impertinence, Lady Thrask, I’m afraid I’m guilty as charged.”

He fell silent as he reviewed the annulment, then fixed a seal to the bottom with his own signature.

“It is done; I’ll file this immediately upon returning to Kaas City along with the other documents.” He paused and fixed Mara with an earnest stare. “There may be some protest over merging the Citadel with Ryloth, your grace. It’s an expensive prize, and some corners of our government still view the province as slightly less than Kaasian.”

“The cost of the Citadel and its lands is barely enough to repay the enormous amounts of coin my uncle extracted from Ryloth; certainly not enough of a reparation if interest were to be accounted for, and of course nothing can ever repay the blood spilt by my uncle and his retainers over the decades.” Mara’s voice was hard. “Tell Mortis he’s lucky Lady Ce’na hasn’t demanded everything she’s lawfully entitled to given Baras’s exploitation of her lands and holdings.”

Quinn blinked; he’d never heard Vette’s title used before.

“In that case, Lady Ce’na may be better advised to make her full demands; doing so by halves may signal to some a weakness of conviction, rather than the magnanimity she intends to display.”

“You may be right,” Mara said after a moment’s contemplation, her thoughts turned inward. She met Vowrawn’s gaze. “Surviving life with my uncle required very different strategy than what may be most advisable in his absence. I will communicate your suggestions to her.”

“Good. Unless there’s something else, I believe our business is concluded for today.” Vowrawn’s orange eyes still twinkled with mirth as he stood and took Mara’s offered hand. “It is presumptuous of me, I know, but allow me to be the first to offer you congratulations. I do hope I’ll be invited to the wedding.”

Before Quinn could register his surprise, Vowrawn clapped him on the shoulder, a startlingly familiar gesture from the older Sith man.

“Try not to cock it up this time, Lord Quinn.”

“Ah….” Quinn looked to Mara but got no help; the blasted woman had her hand clapped over her mouth to contain what sounded suspiciously like a chortle. “Of course not, my lord.”

“Lord Vowrawn, you may be the first to congratulate us, but we should like to inform our family and friends ourselves.” Mara raised a brow stalk pointedly.

“Of course my dear; your secret is safe with me. I’d be grateful for your alacrity in sending those letters, however; Lady Nox will badger me to no end for intelligence about your relationship when I return to Kaas City.”

“You have my sympathy, Lord Vowrawn. You could, perhaps, throw Lord Marr into her path as a distraction?

The enmity between the two Council members had become legend in Kaas City. The two managed to work together in their professional capacities but sniped at each other ceaselessly outside Council chambers. Or rather, Lady Nox nipped at Marr constantly, seemingly delighted by his bursts of fury when he’d had enough.

Despite that, something in Vowrawn’s expression changed when Mara mentioned Marr as a possible diversion, the slightest widening of his orange eyes and a tightness in his jaw. Quinn frowned.

Mara noticed the change in expression as well. “Lord Vowrawn? Is there something I should know?”

“No indeed, my dear. Stars help me I’m custodian of far too many confidences.” He did not sound particularly bothered by that fact. “I shall take your suggestion under advisement, Lady Thrask.”

He made his courtesies and left.

“I do believe Vowrawn approves of you, Malavai.” He could hear the smile in her voice before he turned to look at her.

“I am always surprised by the astounding variety of language you tolerate.”

“I much prefer Vowrawn’s scandalous language to my uncle’s false courtesies, Malavai.”

He felt his face soften. “Of course, forgive me. I’m still adjusting to your ways.”

She waved his apology away. “Not at all; it’s incumbent upon me to remember our differences and meet you partway.” She smiled and sidled closer, her arm going round his waist. “Besides, I do hope you continue to cock up _some_ things.”

His heart started to race. Stars, but her saucy impertinence was bewitching. He leaned in to kiss her impudent mouth but she pulled away with a teasing laugh.

“I promised you a tour of my estate, Lord Quinn.”

 _Now?_ He resisted the urge to throw her over his shoulder and haul her back to her rooms, but only just. She raised her brow stalks in a challenge he couldn’t ignore.

“Of course, Lady Thrask.” He inclined his head and offered his arm, proud of how little sarcasm there was in his voice.

Mara showed Quinn the rest of the house (aside from the routes they’d taken to her rooms) along with the stables (they agreed to send for Ghost and Fury as soon as they could) and garden, with a promise to show him her full lands once their horses arrived.

Despite the short list of destinations, the tour took the better part of the afternoon, the bulk of which was spent in the garden. Quinn was struck by its similarity to Sobrik’s gardens - while he always knew generations of his estate’s groundskeepers imposed only a modicum of the rigid order seen in Kaasian gardens, he hadn’t realized the resulting aesthetic was Horusetian in origin. He recognized most of the plants, save for a ubiquitous white flower that seemed to grow like a weed under and around the larger flora, presenting a carpet of white that danced merrily in the breeze.

“Dzaitsis,” Mara identified them. “The leaves are extremely common in Horusetian cooking, and the flowers make that lovely honey you used in your tea this morning. But you need a lot of them to get an appreciable amount of honey, so we let it run wild.”

In addition to being as pleasant a guide as she’d been at the Citadel when they first met, walking her estate seemed to infuse Mara with a vivacity he’d never seen in her. She tugged him down each path, stopping to pick desert orchids and thornroses and dzaitsis, threading them into her hair and sometimes adorning his as well.

All the while her eyes were filled with heat when they met his, her touch somehow urgent and teasing at the same time when her hands lingered on him. The drawn-out flirtation had driven him far beyond distraction when she finally pushed him up against a tree, the scent of the flowers in her hair overwhelming. Her lips were a breath away from his, promising at least some relief, when Quinn heard footsteps on the path behind them.

Panic clenched his belly at the thought of being discovered in such a compromising position; engaged or not, this was sure to set the servants’ tongues wagging and spread across half the country by week’s end.

Mara tore herself away from him with a giggle but schooled her face to neutrality before she stepped into the path to greet whomever had happened upon them.

“L-Lady Thrask.” The woman’s voice was filled with surprise. “Forgive me, I did not know you were in the gardens-”

“You’re Urinth, of course. I’m very pleased we are able to meet in person at last; Mr. Tremel has had nothing but praise for your work since you came to us.”

“Thank you, your grace; I’ve had a lovely canvas to work with. Few gardens rival yours.”

“If you would not mind, I’d like you to measure the beds that Baras’s men ruined with their encampment. I have some ideas for replacing the plants. Could we meet in, perhaps, an hour?”

“Of course, your grace, at once.” The footsteps headed back up the path away from them at a hurried pace.

“You can come out now, dearest.”

“That was well handled,” he replied, straightening his tailcoat and joining her. His ardor had cooled considerably when panic seized him.

“Why, thank you, Darling.” Her teasing smile faded. “I’d like you to be with me when I meet with Urinth.”

“Oh?” Quinn couldn’t think of anything he’d add to that conversation.

“I think a Kaasian mourning willow would look lovely in that space. You had several impressive specimens in your gardens at Sobrik. I expect Urinth will want to contact your groundskeeper to inquire about the care of the trees.”

“You… you want to plant a Kaasian tree on your estate,” he repeated blankly.

She grinned. “Indeed. It may well be the first in Horuset. Perhaps I will have more planted if the first does well.”

He took her hand in his and kissed it, inhaling the scent of the dzaitsis chained around her wrist, overcome by her determination to make him comfortable, to bring something of his home to hers.

“I’m honored,” he said quietly.

“Come, I’ve saved the best part of the garden for last.”

A short walk later they crested a low hill and emerged onto a covered terrace. They’d walked around the entire house. The area was dotted with chairs and sofas, wicker in construction and clearly meant for outdoor use. The ground beneath their feet was tiled, the same color as the exterior of the house and the waist-height wall that surrounded the terrace on three sides.

Past the wall was nothing but blue ocean.

He gasped; he’d not beheld such a view since his time in the King’s Army, and never without the threat of an enemy attack.

“I was right.”

It was a soft whisper; Quinn was unsure he was meant to hear it. He shot a questioning look at Mara. She smiled and averted her eyes for a moment, then met his gaze again.

“Your eyes are precisely the same blue as the sea.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Surely you must know how striking your eyes are, Malavai.”

He wasn’t _unaware_ , precisely, but it was not something he’d devoted much time to contemplating.

“I was drawn to you the he moment I beheld you that first time,” she said into the silence, her amber eyes searching his. “Your eyes were the first glimpse of home I’d had in fourteen years.”

He stared at her for a long moment, utterly speechless. Of course he had no control over his eye color. Still her words struck him as the deepest of compliments.

And an eloquent indictment of his past actions. He’d entered that vestibule worried about his finances, his reputation, his ability to find a Sith woman attractive. She’d entered it worried for her life and those of her ladies, homesick in a way he would never experience.

He didn’t realize there were tears on his cheeks until her cool fingertips swept them away. He gathered her against him, his arms around her shoulders and waist in a near vice-grip, clinging to her like a lifeline.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered against her ear. “I should have known, I should have _questioned_ -”

“Sssshh, it’s done now.” Mara led him to a sofa, drawing him down next to her. She cradled his cheek in one hand and he leaned into the touch. “You should have, yes. Let us not forget the true villain in all this. My uncle used his authority and the threat of ruin to discourage those questions. He manipulated you as much, if not more, than he did me.”

“I fear I’ll never be able to fully atone for what I did to you. What can I possibly do to outweigh how I’ve hurt you?”

“Love me,” she said, bringing her other hand up, her thumbs caressing his cheekbones. “Utterly and completely, the way you wish you had all along.”

“That seems a far easier and more enjoyable task than I deserve,” he answered, laughing helplessly and pressing his forehead to hers. The signet she wore was bitingly cold against his flushed skin.

She held him against her for a moment and pulled away, her hands sliding to his chest and her eyes searching his.

“Perhaps, but you will need to let go of your guilt if you are to do it properly. I have forgiven you, Malavai. What will it take for you to forgive yourself?”

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “Seeing what was taken from you has… heightened my guilt, as it should.”

“That’s not why I brought you here; I’d hoped to heal.”

“I know. Perhaps this is part of that process for me.”

“How can I help? Or, can I help?”

He smiled and caressed her cheek. “Love me, utterly and completely, as you always have.”

“Darling….” She pulled his lips to hers.

It wasn’t a chaste kiss, precisely, but she claimed his mouth gently, exploring him before inviting him to do the same, every movement of her lips and small sound she made so full of tenderness he thought his heart would burst. The heat between them lost none of its intensity, it was simply quieter; a warm glow rather than the conflagration it had been the previous night.

“Stars, I love you,” he gasped when she pulled away.

“And I love you.”

She shifted so her back was to him and lay down with her head in his lap. He stroked her hair, enjoying the quiet companionship between them. At length, he spoke, remembering a question he’d been pondering ever since Vowrawn left.

“Why has Vette never used her title before?”

Mara’s amber eyes opened and she regarded him for a moment.

“She refused to use it under my uncle’s roof. Twi’lek naming conventions are peculiar and suited to the complicated history of Ryloth. Ce’na is the name her parents gave her, the name of Ryloth’s lady. Vette is the name she took for herself. So long as she refused to give him her family name….”

“He couldn’t possess her title, in essence.”

“Precisely.”

“That’s ingenious, really. And a sad reminder of her people’s history.”

“Remembrance is important, no matter how prosperous Ryloth’s future appears now.” She smiled up at him. “Honor the past while living for the future. It’s a skill you will need.”

He smiled, his hand once again threading through her hair.

“I’m always looking to improve myself, your grace.”

She laughed gently and her eyes drifted shut again. That was how Tremel found them. He appeared in the doorway that led into the house and ducked his head deferentially.

“Urinth is ready for you, your grace.”

***

Mara closed her eyes and the roaring pulse of the ocean seemed to grow louder and deeper, filling her existence until she could almost feel the waves breaking. Her head fell back against the sofa cushions, her breath slowing until she inhaled long with the receding waves, and a rush of air hissed out of her nostrils with the deep  _whumpf_  of the sea slamming into the red-clay cliffs below. A cool breeze fluttered over her, carrying the scent of pine and salt, and as her heartbeat slowed with her meditative breathing, the barrier between her physical being and the world around her seemed to dissolve.

She smiled. Malavai was right; three days here and already she felt at home - still residually homesick and disbelieving she was finally _here_ , but at home nonetheless.

The quiet staccato rhythm of boots on marble pulled her back into her body and she opened her eyes. Without a word she extended a hand in invitation. Malavai accepted, his pale hand a sharp contrast against her jewel-red skin, and sat. She turned to lie against him, her head in his lap, almost before he was fully seated, so familiar had this impromptu ritual become. His hand threaded into her hair and she sighed contentedly.

Her eyes drifted shut again. The hissing roar of the sea and the playful pinewood breeze were still there, and his warmth amplified the gentle bite of the afternoon chill. When she looked up, it was to see him gazing down at her, his expression so warm she forgot to breathe.

“Betrothal suits you, Lord Quinn,” she said, arching her back slightly to press her head into his hand, loving the feel of his fingers on her scalp.

“It's easy to wear such good fortune well, Lady Thrask.”

“Hmm. When do you think your mother and Georgiana will arrive?” She asked.

“Depending on how long it took my mother to decamp Sobrik, it could be as early as to-”

“I knew it!”

They both started at the exclamation, Mara bolting upright and twisting to face the door. Malavai’s face had gone deeply red, his expression wavering between shock and happiness.

“I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!”

Georgiana rushed out onto the patio, a triumphant smile on her face, and squeezed onto the sofa between them.

“‘It is entirely possible she may not forgive me’,” she said in a passable affectation of Malavai’s voice. She shot her brother a smug look and threw her arms around Mara in tight hug. “My brother is an idiot sometimes, but one learns to love him anyway,” she said more softly, her voice long-suffering and fond.

Mara laughed and folded her arms around the younger woman. “Hello, Georgiana.”

She met Malavai’s gaze over Georgiana’s shoulder. The shock had receded, leaving only a pleased smile in its place as he watched them embrace. She pulled back, and Georgiana twisted to hug her brother. He kissed her temple, and Georgiana sat back, an arm round each of them.

“You shall have to give me a tour tomorrow; the woods are positively gorgeous. Somewhat dry, though; I don’t suppose there are any toads or toad-like animals nearby? I only desire information,” she insisted, blue eyes wide and innocent, when Malavai shot her a warning glare. “Don’t worry, dear brother, your bed is safe so long as you share it with Lady Thrask.”

“Georgiana!”

From the doorway, Lady Quinn’s tone and face mirrored the scolding shock of Malavai’s voice and expression. The young woman blushed, but was unrepentant.

“We all know it’s true, Mama.”

“But one does not _comment on it_ , Georgiana. For stars’ sake.” Lady Quinn was striking as ever, the silver in her dark hair glinting in the late afternoon sun, her dark travel dress somehow just as stately as Mara’s own ink blue gown.

Mara rose hurriedly and curtseyed. The courtesy was not required, but Mara suddenly found herself wishing for the older woman’s good opinion. It must have shown, for Lady Quinn smiled and inclined her head.

“I’m very pleased to hear of your engagement, Lady Thrask; you must know by now I am quite fond of you.”

“Please, Lady Quinn; if we’re to be family I would ask you to call me Mara.”

“And you must call me Henrietta. Please.”

Mara grinned. “Of course; I’m honored.”

Lady Quinn turned to Malavai, who bent down to kiss her cheek. “Congratulations, my son. You will be a very happy man.”

“Thank you, mother. I couldn’t agree more. After you’ve settled into your quarters, we must discuss some matters of import surrounding the marriage settlement.”

“I suspected as much; I’ve been reading about Horusetian customs.” Lady Quinn smiled and blushed lightly. “I must confess, I’d never thought to give away a son.”

Mara smiled. “It’s merely consenting to the marriage in public, Henrietta; not…” she shuddered, remembering her uncle ‘giving her away’ all those weeks ago.

“I know my dear, my apologies.” 

“None are required, I assure you. We shall have some time to discuss all this before the house begins to fill with guests - Lady Ce’na sent word that she and Jaesa will not arrive for at least a week.”

“And Broonmark should be here a bit later today,” Georgiana added, standing to join them. She made a face. “Mother wouldn’t allow him to ride in the carriage with us.”

“He’s a gargantuan beast, Georgiana; he would not have _fit_ in the carriage.” Lady Quinn’s tone said they’d argued about this for most of the journey.

“Broonmark is quite accustomed to the luggage wagon, Georgiana,” Mara said. “He prefers to leap off and back on at will, which is not permissible in a carriage.”

“Well _I_ miss him.”

Mara laughed. “As do I, but he’ll be here soon enough.”

*** 

“You never said anything about Uncle Baras, Papa. I wish you had, but… he’s gone now. He’ll never hurt anyone again.”

The vault before her, marked with each of her parents’ names, stared back at her impassively, silence closing in around her as the echo of her words faded. Still, it was a comforting blanket of silence.

“I wish you were both here. You’d like Malavai, I think.” Mara smiled, a rueful chuckle bubbling out of her. “Or at least you’d enjoy teasing him, Marsah. But he loves me as Papa loved you....”

She sighed, pressing the back of her hand to her cheek to contain the few tears that had escaped her eyes.

“I miss you so much. The house is so full of visitors and happiness and people I wish you could meet.” She inhaled shakily. “I remembered your lessons, Marsah. I was strong. Our house is strong. I just wish….”

She trailed off, her thoughts becoming muddled, and took a moment to control her weeping. She hadn’t slept well - wedding guests filled every spare room at Pesegam, necessitating dinners and entertainments even though the festivities had not officially begun. That work, combined with Malavai observing a Kaasian custom of sleeping apart from her the last five nights leading up to their wedding, meant the few hours she did spend in bed were filled with fitful, lonely sleep that seemed only partially restorative.

“I wish I knew I was the duchess you raised me to be. I will try to be, but…. I wish I could hear your voices one last time.”

She sat in the cool catacombs under her house for another hour, telling her parents about Vette, Jaesa, and Pierce; about her love for riding through the countryside, about Georgiana and Lady Quinn.

“You and Henrietta in a room together would be terrifying.” She began to laugh, picturing the Dowager Countess and late Duchess sitting down to tea together, deftly ruling the world with pinkie fingers delicately lifted. “Stars, no one would take the rest of us seriously ever again in the face of such stately poise.”

The room brightened as a second lamp joined her own.

“Lady Thrask? It’s time.”

Mara stood, brushing the dirt off her sleeping shift, and said her goodbyes. Zara held a robe out to her. Mara had come down here early, before the rest of the house had awoken, and so had not feared for her modesty. Now, with the guests up and about, the robe was necessary. She pulled the silky grey brocade around her and hurried up to ground level, the maid speaking as they walked, the tile cool under Mara’s bare feet.

“Malora has sent a tray to your rooms, your grace, and a hot bath is being drawn as we speak.”

From another room - from the other side of the house, it seemed - an incessant barking began and grew steadily closer until Broonmark burst through an archway, hopping around Mara excitedly. She knelt and pushed her fingers through his thick white fur, murmuring nonsense until he settled, and resumed the walk back to her rooms.

“Thank you, Zara. I take it breakfast has been laid out for the guests?”

“Indeed, Lord Quinn and the dowager have been entertaining on your behalf. And I was asked to give you this.” She held out a folded scrap of paper.

Mara slowed as she began to read.

_My darling, I know these last nights have been lonely. Indeed, I’ve scarcely slept, myself, for want of your presence. But rest assured the separation serves a purpose._

_I am on fire with anticipation of this evening, when we shall claim each other anew. Which of us will shoo the guests to their bed chambers first, do you think?_

She stared at the paper, her cheeks aflame, breath coming rapidly as her wanton imaginings of the past five nights flashed through her mind.

“Zara, I will need you to carry a letter in return-“

She cut off with a grunt as she stumbled into someone.

“Please excuse me, I… Malavai!”

He’d grabbed her waist to keep from falling over, his palm hot through the thin fabric of her shift. His blue eyes travelled the length of her body - her thin gown, made only slightly more decent by the open robe, her loose, flowing hair - before returning to her face, a blush warming his cheeks as he laughed.

“I’m not supposed to see you yet, your grace” he admonished her.

“Then stop _looking at me_ , my lord,” she countered.

“Ah,” he swallowed visibly. “That is rather easier said than done.”

Mara stepped close to him and held up his letter, caressing his cheek with the folded edge of the paper.

“Avert your eyes, my love; I wouldn’t want to douse that fire just yet.”

“Y-you’re in no danger of that,” he replied in a hoarse whisper.

“Good.”

She pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek, inhaling the scent of him, and then turned away sharply and continued on to her rooms without looking back.

“Never mind about the letter, Zara. I think my message was heard quite clearly.”

The maid snorted with laughter.

 

No fewer than three hours later, scrubbed and scented, her hands and feet painted in intricate mowhef stripes, Mara closed her eyes as the cool gold disc of her signet settled onto her forehead and Zara wove its cord through her hair with deft hands. Her hair was pulled back into a complicated braid, strands of pearls and topaz woven into the plait, and then wound into a low bun at the nape of her neck to display her heavy golden earrings to more advantage.

She turned her head, examining her jewelry and the coiled braid. The weight of her hair was only slightly more noticeable than the weight of the symbol on her forehead. For the briefest of moments, her eyes unfocused and her mother’s face was reflected back at her from the glass, an encouraging smile on her face. A blink and she was gone, replaced by Mara’s own face and her pleased smile.

“I’m ready for the gown, Zara,” she said, meeting her maid’s brown eyes in the mirror.

Mara shed the lightweight grey robe, revealing back silk stays. Mindful of the designs on her hands and feet, which were still drying, she stepped delicately into the skirt Zara placed on the floor for her, and held herself completely still as she pulled it up and tied the lace closure at the back of the waist. The fabric hung heavy against her hips - lined pale gold silk embroidered with darker thread of gold, a repeating pattern of tiny thornroses. The bottom hem was edged with black velvet, it too embroidered in thread of gold, rearing mowhefs surrounded by chains of dzaitsis.

The black sleeveless bodice was next, Mara holding her arms out delicately as her maid fastened the front closures. She stood back and looked Mara up and down, then nodded her approval.

The dzaitsi-and-thornrose motif was repeated on the bodice, tracing the bottom hem and then up either side of the closures, widening around the square neckline. The thin cap sleeves were completely covered with golden flowers. The gold was bright against her red skin, accentuating the wide neckline and the point it came to between her breasts. A complicated golden cuff wove its way round her left bicep, and simple gold and onyx bracelet wrapped her right wrist.

“Your mother would be proud, your grace.”

Mara shook herself. “You think so?”

“I do, your grace.”

She smiled. A knock at the door forestalled any additional conversation. She called an entrance and Tremel stuck his head into the room. His brown eyes widened when he saw her.

“Your grace, I,” he bowed low. “They’re ready to begin.”

Her mind wandered as he led her through the house, past the ballroom - muted conversation and scuffling could be heard as her staff rushed to finish decorating for the evening - and outside. She blinked in the bright afternoon sun, gulping in the crisp fresh air. They stopped  at the top of the steps,just out of view of the guests gathered in the main clearing of the garden. Below them, Mara could hear Lady Quinn’s voice, clear and strong, consenting to joining her son to House Thrask.

Vette paced the edge of the top step, impatient, resplendent in a gown of lavender silk. The cut of the gown was Kaasian, but the woven silver coronet sitting atop her brow, pale green peridot and amethyst bright against her blue skin, was one of the few Rylothian treasures that had escaped Baras’s clutches.

“My lady,” Mara greeted her with a smile.

“Your grace.”

The barest of pauses and then Mara grabbed her friend in a fierce hug.

“Getting sentimental already?” Her tone was light but Mara could hear the crack in Vette’s voice as emotion overwhelmed her.

As Lady Quinn reached the end of her speech, Tremel disappeared down the stairs.

“Perhaps,” Mara said, stepping back, pretending not to notice her friend dab at her eyes. “Remember how we used to dream of this?”

“You marrying a well-meaning Kaasian idiot?”

Tremel’s voice began his introduction of her.

“Visiting one another as mistresses of our own lands and fate,” Mara corrected her, rolling her eyes.

“With Baras little more than an unpleasant memory?”

“Precisely.”

“It’s rather lovely, isn’t it?” Vette ventured, a wicked grin on her face.

“Even more so than we’d imagined.”

It suddenly occurred to Mara it had been several moments since she’d heard Tremel’s voice speaking. Vette realized at the same time and muttered a curse, her hand tight around Mara’s arm as she hustled her down the stairs.

Mara managed to wrench herself out of Vette’s grip and slow to a stately pace - as if she’d intended to miss her own entrance to her own wedding - before she became visible to her guests. Tremel, at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at them impatiently, shook his head with a wry smile.

“Ah yes, as I was saying. The Lady Maranel Thrask, daughter of Ragna, twelfth duchess of Pesegam.”

He offered a hand, which Mara accepted, and helped her down the last two steps. She nodded her thanks and turned toward Malavai. Her breath caught, but she somehow kept herself from going still and staring at him.

He wore traditional Horusetian garments, baggy breeches and soft calf-height boots, and long overcoat with a short, upstanding collar. The full ensemble was black, the coat heavily embroidered in gold along the front closure, cuffs, and collar, the pattern of the embroidery matching her gown.

He was beautiful.

His mouth had dropped open slightly, a fact he remedied as he reached for her hand. His blue eyes were wide.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” she murmured quietly as Tremel summoned Vette and Ovech as seconds and witnesses of their union.

His eyes widened further, until Mara worried they may well fall out of his head.

“You’ve stolen the words from my mouth, darling,” he replied just as quietly.

Vette and Ovech each lit a torch - Vette’s flame burning red, Ovech’s blue, the color determined by the materials in each. At Tremel’s nod, Mara turned and took the torch from Vette.

“I, Maranel Thrask, daughter of Ragna, twelfth duchess of Pesegam, do participate in this solemn ritual of my own free will, to join my soul,” she took a breath to steady her racing heart, “and my house to Lord Malavai Quinn, Earl of Balmorra.”

The blue flame threw shadows across the hollow under Malavai’s left cheekbone as he took his torch from Ovech.

“I, Malavai Quinn, son of Rymar, ninth earl of Balmorra, do participate in this solemn ritual of my own free will to join my soul and my house to Lady Maranel Thrask, Duchess of Pesegam.”

They turned toward a series of unlit torches laid out in a hexagonal shape, each marking the end of a six pointed star formed from three intersecting lines. The star of Ahmurn, one of Horuset’s most ancient symbols, was lain into the ground with black stone. The top and bottom points of the star held two torches each; the others were each marked with one. At its center, where all three lines intersected, sat a waist-high brazier. The obsidian base was polished to a high gleam, etched in Kittat with the story of Marserha and her lover Ahmurn, the parents of all Sith. Shiny obsidian claws curved around a deep alabaster bowl two paces in diameter. The bowl was hollow in the center, giving access to a deep reservoir of kindling and fuel house within the base. Beyond the hexagon, their guests were arrayed on the lawn.

Together, she and Malavai approached the first point, set with two torches

“As this flame burns, so does my love for you. I’ve never adored or admired anyone as I do you, Malavai. My love for you warmed me in my darkest moments, whether I willed it so or not.”

Malavai grimaced lightly at the reference to his betrayal, but nodded at her to continue. They’d decided, mutually, as they worked on their vows, that to ignore their recent past would impede their healing and, to their guests, call further attention to it. 

“I will be your fire, my love; I will warm your heart and your home, rage on your behalf, and burn for you by night.”

She grinned and touched her flame to one of the torches.

“As this flame burns, so does my love for you,” Malavai repeated, his eyes holding hers. “No one has ever ignited my passions as you do, Mara. That fire has become my guiding light, bringing me home even when I did not deserve such guidance.” His voice cracked on the final words. He took a breath and continued, reaching for her hand and squeezing it. “I will be your fire, my love; I will warm your heart and home, rage on your behalf, and burn for you by night.”

The torch next to hers ignited in a brilliant blue.

They separated, taking the next two torches on each side individually.

_We each bring strength to our union, combining that which we are individually to create something new and unassailable._

_My house is ancient; I pledge its power to thee, and to wield our power with cunning and wisdom, and to raise any children we may have with a keen understanding of the power we hold._

They met once again at the bottom of the star. Malavai lit his torch. His pale hand brushed her cheek and Mara closed her eyes and leaned into the touch.

“Our love has freed me to be more myself than I thought possible; more literally, you have freed me from the most serious threats I or my house has ever known. I vow to safeguard your freedom to be yourself, both within our union and outside it, and will love you as you are, until the moment of my death.”

“My first experience of freedom, true freedom, as an adult was by your side, Malavai, that first afternoon we went riding together. Even at our worst moments, I found freedom in your home and the warmth of your family. I vow to safeguard your freedom to be yourself, both within our union and outside it, and will love you as you are, until the moment of my death.”

She lit her torch and took Malavai’s hand. Behind them, the eight torches lit up a hexagon half red, half blue. Together they walked to the center brazier. They exchanged a glance - Mara could feel Malavai’s hand shaking in hers - and touched both torches to the kindling within the bowl. After a moment’s hesitation, it ignited. The fuel within was a combination of the compounds that created her red flame and Malavai’s blue; the central flame blazed brilliant purple.

As one, they placed their torches into sconces jutting out of either side of the brazier. They joined hands again, Mara’s left side heating quickly with proximity to the flame. Malavai smoothed his thumbs over her knuckles, soothing her despite the continued shaking of his hands. His blue eyes shone with the writhing purple flame and unshed tears. As she watched, a couple of tears escaped, tracing shining lines down his pale cheeks. Even so, his voice was strong and clear.

“I pledge myself as your husband, to love, guard, and care for you, and any children we may have, in every moment I have left in this world.”

Mara surprised herself in needing a moment’s breath before she was steady enough to speak. Her _husband_ ; he was hers in truth, forever. She gave a wobbly smile, feeling her chest warm when he returned it.

“And I pledge myself as your wife, to love, guard, and care for you, and any children we may have, in every moment I have left in this world.”

“May I,” he coughed and cleared his throat, then continued, his voice clearer. “May I kiss you, my dearest love?”

“Gods, yes.”

There was a rustle of laughter from their guests, and then Malavai’s lips were on hers, her existence shrinking until there was only him and the insistent warmth of the flame next to them.

All too soon, he pulled away, his cheeks still damp, but his face radiant with the broadest smile she’d ever seen on him. Vette stepped forward.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Duke and Duchess of Pesegam.”

“And the Earl and Countess of Balmorra,” Ovech added.

Mara’s hand in the crook of Malavai’s arm, they exited the hexagon, joining their friends and loved ones on the lawn, as a cheer went up around them. Broonmark, uncharacteristically quiet through the ceremony, erupted, barking and hopping, running around them both and to Georgiana and back again.

 

“As Malavai’s oldest friend and confidante, I thought it only right to inform you all that we came perilously close to losing the possibility of this union forever.” Ovech grinned at the crowd, his voice echoing in the dining room. “For my dear friend, my comrade in arms, my brilliant university mate who pulled me through every blasted maths exam, is patently incapable of writing his affection. A fact I was reminded of all too painfully late last summer.”

The guests chuckled. Quinn tried to keep his features neutral, an exercise that proved entirely worthless as soon as Vette stood up, her own wine glass in hand.

“Indeed, I can corroborate the major’s intelligence, for, while that first letter was _most_ diverting, that was not by intention. How _is_ dear Ghost, Lord Quinn?”

_They must have planned this together, damn them both to the deepest Corellian hell._

Still, with his wife pressing her face into his shoulder to contain her laughter, he found it difficult to maintain a sour demeanor for very long.

“I had no idea you let Vette see those letters,” he murmured as Vette continued her portion of the speech.

“I had to lean on someone during that trying time,” Mara replied, sitting up but keeping her hand on his arm. “Besides, you have nothing to be ashamed of; you improved with practice.”

Her wicked smile set his heart jumping.

“That I did,” he agreed, covering her hand with his, “as I believe my most recent note illustrated eloquently.”

“Hmm, yes, perhaps I should have passed that to Vette as well, as evidence of your improved facility.”

“I know better than to take you seriously, wife.”

His eyes slid closed and he felt his nose brush hers, and abruptly realized the room had fallen completely silent. Slowly Quinn turned his head to face the rest of the room, and flushed.

“I see there’s no need to explain how shockingly inappropriate they can be in company. Look at them.” Vette shook her head and raised her glass. “May you always be this disgustingly in love.”

A chorus of _hear, hear_ followed, and a collective sip of wine.

Mara’s hand on his coat pulled him back toward her.

“Insufferable tease,” she muttered lovingly, and kissed him.

Ovech and Vette led a raucous cheer.

 

“I hope your accommodations are agreeable, Lady Nox. I regret not having time until now to ask.”

Kryn, wearing an hourglass-shaped gown of a deep red, laughed musically and waved the apology away with her empty wine glass. They stood just behind Kryn’s chair; Mara eyed the woman’s half-empty plate enviously, her grumbling stomach remaining her she’d scarcely eaten two bites of her food before making her rounds with her guests.

“Of course they are; Pesegam is lovely, Mara. No wonder you clung to your heritage as you did.” She paused. “I take it I was particularly difficult to place?”

“I can’t have you beating Lord Marr in my corridors, Kryn,” Mara replied with a grin. The mirth faded as she continued, “and Malavai is still not particularly enamored of you.”

“Yes, it’s almost as if he doesn’t trust me, I can’t imagine why.”

Mara sighed and shook her head in the face of Kryn’s unrepentant mirth.

“As for Marr, I assure you the distance is wholly unnecessary; I am an adult.”

Mara frowned. Was that disappointment in her voice? She pushed the thought away; she had enough on her plate, metaphorically if not literally, without worrying about Lady Nox’s moods.

“Of course you are,” she said, holding up her hands in a sarcastically placating gesture. “At any rate, I hope you’ll invite me for tea in your new Kaas City home when next we’re in town.”

“Of course! You’ll always be a welcome respite from the unrelenting boredom of the Kaasian elite. Even if you weren’t, I couldn’t very well snub the Duchess of Pesegam _and_ the Countess of Balmorra, now could I?”

“I suppose not, but I’m please you will welcome me as a friend.”

“Always.”

Mara turned to leave, but Kryn’s hand on her arm.

“You did well, Lady Thrask.”

Her hazel eyes held Mara’s earnestly.

“Thank you.”

“And tell your husband…” she paused, and Mara held her breath. “He took it well; like a Sith.”

She blinked. That was the closest to an apology as the woman ever got.

“I… I will tell him.”

“Good. Now run along.”

Mara gave a jaunty salute.

“Yes, my lady.”

She wound her way through the ballroom, pausing to trade courtesies with the Council members in attendance, and to take the swig of whiskey Pierce offered from a flask concealed in his coat.

“I’m going to feel that deeply quite soon, given how little I’ve eaten today,” she murmured, looking around conspiratorially and handing the flask back to him.

“Eh, one needs to be a little tipsy on their wedding day, Nel.” He glared across the room at Malavai, who was deep in discussion with his mother and several Kaasians in uniform she didn’t recognize. “Particularly if one is marrying that git.”

“Pierce,” her voice was part warning, part plea. “You said yourself you’d never seen someone so zealously defend another person’s home before.”

“It shouldn't have been necessary,” he growled. “Oh, I’ll allow he was in a tough spot. Doesn’t mean I can't dislike him for hurting you.”

Mara sighed and patted Pierce’s arm.

“Ryland…”

He covered her hand with his, silencing her.

“Long as you’re happy, I’ll tolerate him. If he does it again, though, he’s dead.”

“You’ll have to get in line behind me and Vette, then.”

“I should hope so.” He leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Congratulations, Nel.”

She squeezed his arm and joined her husband. The next hour was a whirlwind of gracious thank yous and small talk with people whose names Mara was certain she wouldn’t remember. At length, she climbed onto a chair and whistled for quiet.

“Good evening!”

She wobbled precariously and a hand gripped her thigh, steadying her. She looked down, smiled her thanks at Malavai, and looked back up, keeping a hand on his shoulder for balance.

“The Sith in the gathering know what’s coming next, which is why many of the unmarried guests have started drifting toward the dance floor already,” she began. “For my Kaasian friends and family, we are about to undertake the _itsu raihzutdor_. Love is a chain spanning generations. It is our responsibility,” she squeezed Malavai’s shoulder, “to pass our love forward, to encourage the next amongst you who would choose to marry.”

She removed the onyx-and-gold bracelet from her wrist.

“It’s quite simple. Whomever catches this, tradition says, should be the next to get married, with our blessing.” She grinned. “And if you’d rather not, that’s perfectly fine; you may enjoy the jewelry with our blessing.”

It took several minutes for everyone to get situated, and for Henrietta to herd Broonmark into the hall where he wouldn’t be underfoot. Once the group had gathered, Mara mounted the chair once more, her back to the guests.

“I believe this is where we wish you all good luck,” Malavai said, earning a chuckle from the tightly-clustered group of unwed guests.

“Hush,” She admonished him with a laugh. “Play nice, children!”

She flung the bracelet over her shoulder.

Three things happened.

Mara wobbled with the effort - the whiskey had done its work - and the chair flew out from under her.

Malavai caught her round the middle with both arms and grunted as her momentum took them both to the tile floor with a bone-jarring thud.

And Jaesa shot straight upward from the middle of the crowd, her blue gown askew, her triumphant whoop echoing in the sudden silence as she caught the bracelet.

The crowd snapped apart as she landed, revealing Vette on one knee behind her, apparently having launched her lover skyward to claim the prize. Jaesa’s gleeful laugh was cut short as Vette grabbed her hand and yanked her to sit on Vette’s knee.

“You know what this means,” Vette teased, smoothing strands of curled hair back from Jaesa’s flushed face.

“Of course, Lady Ce’na.” Jaesa took Vette’s free hand and slid the bracelet onto her wrist. “It means you’re going to marry me.”

“It means we get to fight some Council members so I can marry you,” Vette corrected her.

Jaesa’s answer was to cradle Vette’s face in both hands and claim her mouth in a gentle kiss.

Mara grinned and scrambled to her feet, pulling Malavai with her.

“I hope,” she said loudly, eyes searching the ballroom for Marr, Vowrawn, Ravage, and Nox, “that we may have the pleasure of seeing you married very soon.”

“Indeed,” Lady Nox agreed, stepping forward. “I should like that as well. Marr, I would speak to you about this.”

Marr sighed. “Lady Nox, surely-”

“Now,” the tiny woman snapped, striding out of the ballroom, evidently secure that Marr would follow.

Mara felt her mouth fall open when he looked around, an uncharacteristic blush on his face, and obeyed. Suddenly Kryn’s disappointment with her room’s location - as far from Marr’s as possible - snapped into focus. She grabbed Malavai’s arm.

“They’re….”

“I know.”

Mara turned a surprised gaze on her husband. “You do?”

“I suspected after we signed the annulment; Vowrawn’s behavior was so odd, and there’s really only one secret pertaining to those two that would be more scandalous than their obvious enmity.”

Mara looked around the room, her eyes briefly meeting Vowrawn’s, and he grinned.

“Do they think that was subtle?” She asked, incredulous.

“Darling we both know subtlety is not Lady Nox’s strength.”

“True enough. Still, we may owe her a debt of gratitude.”

“How so?”

“Between Jaesa’s spectacle and the gossip set into motion by our esteemed Council members, do you think anyone would notice if we left?”

“Vowrawn would.”

“Yes, but the most he’ll do is suggest several scandalous acts on our way out.”

“Oh, is that all?”

Despite Malavai’s tone, he was already steering her toward the door that led to the hallway. True to their predictions, Vowrawn caught Mara’s eye and winked.

They scampered up the stairs like guilty schoolchildren sneaking sweets from the pantry, Mara giggling the whole way. By the time she closed the door to her rooms - their rooms - she was nearly doubled over with laughter.

“It’s a wonder the entire household couldn’t follow our movements,” Malavai said with a sigh.

“Complaining about my volume already, dearest?”

“Indeed not,” he answered, pulling her toward him with a hand on each of her hips. “I love the sounds you make.”

Mara laughed, eager to remind him of her full vocabulary of pleasure noises.

Her stomach gurgled, the sound seeming to echo in the quiet bedchamber.

That was not part of her usual repertoire.

Malavai chuckled and leaned in to kiss her, pressing his body into hers. Their lips had barely made contact when his stomach growled as well, loudly enough Mara was certain she could feel the sound vibrating against her. She dropped her forehead to his shoulder, surrendering to another fit of giggling that, now that she focused on it, was almost certainly borne of the whiskey that lined her otherwise-empty stomach.

“When did you eat last?” Malavai asked her.

“Breakfast, just after I saw you in the hall. You?”

“Breakfast, just before that.”

Mara lifted her head and cast her eyes about the room conspiratorially.

“You know, we have a bell-pull and a kitchen staff.”

He gave a gasp of feigned shock.

“Indeed. Lady Quinn, your ingenuity knows no bounds.”

“You are most fortunate in your choice of wife, Malavai,” she replied, yanking the bell-pull.

Zara appeared only a handful of minutes later, looking utterly unsurprised at being summoned.

“Of course, Melora kept a portion of the food back for this precise reason. Shall I bring you a selection, or have plates made up?”

“Plates, please, and a pot of tea, if you please.”

Zara curtseyed and hurried out of the room. Mara turned to Malavai to see him running his finger around the edge of his collar, not for the first time.

“Is the coat uncomfortable?”

“Not at all,” he answered. “It’s actually quite easy to move in. I’m simply unused to the collar.”

“You wear a cravat daily,” Mara said, frowning.

“Yes, but that hugs the neck; the edge of this collar seems to chafe.”

“Let me see.”

She pulled him toward the bed and undid the buttons of his coat, one at a time. He exhaled in relief when the collar loosened. She winced sympathetically; sure enough, an angry red line had formed on the left-hand side of his neck where the edge of the collar had rubbed his skin raw.

“Oh darling, I’m sorry,” she said. “Wait a moment.”

She retrieved the salve she’d used on him their first night together; his medical case had long taken up residence in his half of their joint dressing room. He flinched when she touched her cold fingers to the welt then steeled himself. He was still as she applied the salve to the rest of the wound, letting her fingertips dance over his neck, then turned and placed the bottle on the side table.

With her back briefly to him, she felt his hands in her hair, gently seeking the pins that held it in place. He slowly unwound her hair, freeing each strand of pearls and topaz he encountered, laying them on her vanity next to her hairbrush, and unwove the braid. She sighed deeply, leaning back against him, when her hair was completely free. His fingertips ghosted over the chord of her signet.

“May I?”

“Please.”

For a moment the lack of a weight on her forehead was disorienting, then Malavai’s fingertips slid through her hair, massaging her scalp, and all other sensation fled save for the goosebumps that cascaded over her skin.

“Better?”

“Very much. Though I cannot help but think a robe would be more comfortable than this gown.”

“Hmm, I eagerly support such a change of costume, so long as I may change as well.”

Mara laughed and turned to face him, untucking his shirt from his breeches to indicate her amenability to his plan. Their fingers were gentle as they undressed each other, each relishing the presence of the other and the relief of shedding the various layers of ceremony they’d worn today, until they were both wearing nothing but their skin.

There was another knock at the door - Zara with their food - and Malavai hustled to the dressing room and into his robe, tossing Mara’s to her. She was still calmly pulling the second sleeve on when Zara entered with a tray. She smirked at their change in dress, left the food on the table in their sitting room, and withdrew without a word.

The scent of spit-roasted sleen and spiced chutney was almost overwhelming to Mara’s starved senses; there was little conversation as they ate, but then, such was their hunger they cleared their respective plates in far faster than was seemly.

Malavai poured tea for them both - he’d grown accustomed it during his weeks here, at least in the evenings. He settled back against the couch cushions, his feet propped up on an ottoman. Mara snuggled against him, his arm around her shoulders and his cup in his free hand. The smoky scent of the Korribani tea, the warmth of her husband against her….

It had taken fifteen years and no small amount of heartache, but she was home. Fully and completely.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this feels like an end - you're forgiven if it doesn't, because it turns out I don't know how to end a story - that's because it is. An epilogue is to come in the next few days, but the story of our dear heroes is complete. 
> 
> I'm not sure when the "finished fic" feeling will become real, but I adore each and every one of you who stopped by to read, left kudos, commented... this has been such a positive experience for me and it's 100% because of you lovely readers. 
> 
> Look for new things in the not so distant future - especially around NaNoWriMo - I'll be turning back to the mainverse to write my retelling of the Warrior storyline. Stay tuned. :)


	24. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some loose ends are tied up.

_ Three years later. _

“Darling, we're going to be late,” Malavai admonished her, stepping into their sitting room at Gorinth House, a tray in one hand.

“Nonsense; Stasze is nearly done and I’m ready, otherwise,” Mara replied. “I can’t precisely hurry her along. Can I, you wee beast?” She cooed at the bundle in her arms, stroking the baby’s pale red cheek. 

Malavai left the tray on a table and sank down next to her on the settee, a broad smile lighting his face as he caressed their daughter’s head, gently arranging her dusting of dark hair. She paused for a moment in her meal and looked up at them, as if enjoying the attention her parents lavished on her, and then resumed with a particularly deep bite of her tiny, needle-like teeth. Mara winced but didn’t flinch away; she’d gotten better at that over time.

“Her eyes haven’t changed,” Mara commented, turning her head to catch Malavai's lips with hers before continuing, “I do believe the Quinn genetics have won out on that score.

“Quinn eyes and Thrask stubbornness. She’ll be a force to be reckoned with,” Malavai agreed. 

“I  _ beg _ your pardon,” Mara replied archly. “I do hope you brought something delicious if you intend to speak to the mother of your child in such a fashion.”

“I think you'll be pleased with Mrs. Pinfield’s attempt at roasted sleen, yes.” His lips twitched as he fought back a laugh. 

The smell of the spice-rubbed meat had already set Mara’s stomach growling. A glance down showed Stasze’s blue eyes had drifted shut, her mouth still suckling gently at the empty air. 

“As I said: we won’t be late,” Mara said with a smirk.

Malavai shook his head and took the baby from her, cradling her against his chest as Mara re-fastened her stays and the bodice of her deep purple gown, wincing only slightly as the stiff garments molded her sore breasts into place. Much of her pain was forgotten as she inhaled the food her husband had brought. He was correct; Mrs. Pinfield’s culinary facility with sleen had improved markedly. Then again, had she sent up a tepid gruel it may well have tasted like a delicacy; in the two months that had passed since Stasze’s birth, Mara’s hunger seemed sated only during the act of eating, returning immediately upon placing her fork back on the table. 

“I’m ready.” 

She turned to see Malavai swaying gently, murmuring to Stasze, whose head rested on his shoulder. She fought back a sudden rush of tears.

“I love seeing you with her,” she said, moving toward them.

“Then you’re fortunate, for there’s no other person in the world I’d rather hold, save for you.”

She watched them for a few more moments, then glanced at the clock on the mantle.

“Darling, we must go.”

He sighed. Mara understood his reluctance; were this not her oldest friend’s wedding, she would have made their excuses and opted to stay home. He kissed the baby’s forehead and handed her to Mara as they walked across the hall to the nursery. The governess, a Miss Lana Beniko, met them in the doorway, clearly expecting them.

“I was beginning to worry; your graces will be late if you don’t leave immediately,” She said, her voice deferential and reprimanding at the same time. 

It was that mix, in fact, that had recommended her to them as they vetted the various qualified applicants in Mara’s final quarter of pregnancy. Her no-nonsense approach to her duties and her genuine adoration of Stasze only confirmed that they’d made the correct decision.

“Thank you, Lana,” Mara said wryly.

She dropped a kiss onto Stasze’s head and handed her to the blonde woman. 

“Go enjoy your party, all will be safe here.”

***

“I’m unsure I’ve ever seen this many candles in any garden,” Mara whispered as she and Malavai entered the Citadel’s greenhouse. “I wonder if my uncle had an excess store of them?”

The foliage around the green was filled with tiny candles, creating a sea of twinkling stars around the gathered chairs and various nobles, both Kaasian and Twi’lek.

“They’ve used them to beautiful effect,at least,” Malavai replied.

Indeed, Mara barely recognized the castle that had been her polite prison for fifteen years; Vette had spent the last three years energetically replacing staff and decor, until it reflected the light airiness and blended Twi’lek and Kaasian tastes of its mistresses.

They’d arrived just in time; as they crossed the green Lady Nox stood and signaled for quiet. She grinned when her eyes fell on Mara and Malavai scrambling toward seats in the back of the gathering.

At some signal Mara couldn’t see, Vette and Jaesa each stepped out from the star-sprinkled foliage, on opposite sides of the green. The more conservative Kaasians in the crowed gasped. Jaesa's gown shimmered a brilliant silver, almost the color of starlight, her dark hair hanging loose down her back. 

Vette was clad in dark breeches and matching tailcoat, the cravat and lace cuffs of her shirt of the same shimmering fabric as Jaesa’s gown. Mara grinned.

The two met in front of Kryn. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, gathered friends and family. Everyone here knows this happy event has been three years in the making. Three years, countless debates, and of course the ascension of our newest Council member, Lady Atroxa, representing Ryloth,” Kryn gestured toward a red-skinned Twi’lek woman whose lekku and cheeks were striped with dark tattoos.

“All this, to honor a promise made three years ago.”

She paused. Mara felt her lower lip tremble slightly. Without a word Malavai retrieved a handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to her, then slipped an arm around her shoulders.

“Miss Willsaam, you may begin.”

Jaesa took Vette’s hands, their entwined fingers obscured by the shimmering cuffs of Vette’s shirt. The ruffled fabric of the cuffs and the sleeves of Jaesa’s gown seemed to merge, until Mara couldn’t quite tell where Jaesa ended and Vette began.

“I will be your wife, my dearest Lady Ce’na, your lover and companion and source of strength, as you have been to me ever since I came to be here. I will be your wife, so that I may lift your spirits and inspire your laughter, as you so often inspire mine. And I will be your wife, your defender and your advocate, from now until I draw my last breath in this world.”

Her final words were choked, and Vette smoothed away the tears that trickled from Jaesa’s brown eyes, cradling her cheek as she began her own vows.

“I will be your wife, my beloved Jeasa, your safety and moderating influence, as you have been to me since the moment we met. I will be your wife, so that I may learn the kindness of spirit and generosity that comes so naturally to you. And I will be your wife, so that you may never be alone in this world ever again, from now until I draw my last breath in this world.”

“Thus do I swear myself to thee,” Jaesa said.

“Thus do I swear myself to thee,” Vette repeated.

That was it. Ryloth’s history had been so tempestuous that even wedding traditions had adapted; thrice declaring before witnesses your intention to become your lover’s spouse was sufficient to begin a Twi’lek marriage.

With only the barest hesitation, Jaesa threw herself into Vette’s arms, seeking her lips desperately as if she needed the contact to prove this was real, and not a fever dream she would wake from. Vette’s arms went around Jaesa’s waist and she lifted Jaesa off the ground, spinning in a tight circle, her laughter rippling out over the gathered guests.

Kryn, who had faded back into the shadows as Vette and Jaesa exchanged vows, stepped forward and turned the two women toward the crowd.

“Lady Ce’na and Lady Willsaam of Ryloth.”

Mara let out a cheer loud enough to draw stares from the guests around her. As the crowd broke up and began making its way to the Citadel ballroom, Mara took Malavai’s arm and pulled him against the flow of the guests toward her friends. By the time she got to them her vision had blurred completely with tears. She threw an arm around each of them, hugging them tightly.

Kryn gave her a jaunty wave before falling into step next to Lady Atroxa, her hand in the crook of Marr’s arm.

“I’m so happy this is finally legal,” Mara whispered, squeezing her friends once more. “You both deserve this happiness, and this security.”

“I know,” Vette replied, earning a chuckle from Mara and Jaesa both.

“Did you bring the baby?” Jaesa asked, her brown eyes hopeful.

“No, she’s home with Miss Beniko.” At Jaesa’s pouting frown, Mara added, “You both must come to Gorinth House this week, if you can spare some time for a celebratory dinner. You can play with her to your heart’s content then.”

“Play with who?” Pierce asked, appearing next to them in his dress uniform.

“Stasze,” Vette said. 

“Just don’t catch her at mealtime; the sprog nearly left a welt on my face before I could hand her back to Nel.”

“Such are the perils of coming between a Thrask woman and her food, as I have learnt over the years,” Malavai put in dryly.

“You’ve noticed that, as well?” Pierce asked, an impudent grin on his face. He’d never completely warmed up to Malavai, but joining forces to fondly needle her proved to be the single bonding point between them.

“Need I remind you, Malavai, that I have borne you an heir only two months hence?”

“Captain Pierce began this line of conversation,” Malavai protested. 

“Yes, but Pierce has always been an irreverent scoundrel; her grace expects better from you, my lord,” Vette put in blandly.

Both men glared at her.

“I am  _ not _ -”

“I  _ beg _ your pardon-”

The three of them began to argue, their tone holding the long suffering fondness Mara had learned to associate with family. She sighed contentedly and slipped her hand into the warm crook of Malavai’s arm. His hand covered hers automatically, squeezing her fingers even as he traded feigned outrage with Vette. Mara laughed softly and jumped back into the fray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, my kittens, is truly the end. Thank you thank you thank you for reading and commenting and just generally being wonderful! :D
> 
> Also: I realize at this time it was quite gauche for a noblewoman to breastfeed her own children. Sith nobles, however, don't stand on such ceremony. Allow someone else to feed and strengthen their children? I think not.


End file.
